Blow out

Last ride of 2007, and a bizarrely annoying way to end a bizarre year. Five laps of Richmond Park in low-heart-rate mode are brought to an end with the familiar weaving from the front wheel which indicates a slow puncture.

As I unwind the quick-release (with a silent prayer of thanks to Tullio Campagnolo and his frozen fingers on the Croce d'Aune) I reflect that I've done pretty well for punctures this year -- this is the first time I've had to take the Aksiums off since fitting them back in the Spring.

It will be a matter of moments to strip off the tyre, remove the offending tube, check for flints, half-fit the tyre, pull out a new tube, attach the shiny C02 canister and inflate just a little for installation.

Nothing. Not a single squirt. The CO2 canister that I have faithfully carried in my jersey for a year is, perhaps not surprisingly, completely empty.

After five minutes cursing everything imaginable, including my own stupidity -- I stand in the road clutching a wheel and looking hopeful for passing cyclists. This is Richmond Park, so I don't have to wait long. The first to stop, from London Dynamo, is apologetic -- he only has a single CO2 canister but offers, if I'm still stuck next time he comes round, to give it to me.

Another rider leaves me his mini-pump, with instructions to hide it behind a road sign so he can pick it up later.

In the next five minutes, I'm asked at least ten times whether I'm OK, or need any assistance -- a reassuring reminder that solidarity and comradeship among cyclists is not dead. Or perhaps I just look particularly hopeless.

My training plans go out of the window as I'm forced to time-trial the rest of the park and the South Circular in order to get home in time.

Time to reflect on the slightly worn state of the GP3000's and consider their replacement. I've heard bad reports of the new GP4000; so pretty soon I'm on-line, ordering a set of Vittoria Pave's.

And a mini-pump.

Happy New Year

Back for more

One week on, and Richmond Park is a different place. Low winter sun in a cloudless sky; warm despite a harsh wind; relatively few cars but hundreds of cyclists. Some are clearly the advance guard of the post-January 1st resolution brigade -- some, like me, are regular riders - refugees from a Christmas spent overindulging in food and drink.

Solo or in pairs, and packs of London Dynamo -- riding "through and off" with varying degrees of precision and speed.

I'm on my first day training from "the book", and finding it hard going. It's not an easy read, especially for someone who struggled with Maths and Science at school; and it seems to assume that you have access to a sports laboratory or a power meter. Neither is true for me -- especially since most power meters cost more than my bike.

But I've adopted and adapted the central message -- go slower to ride faster; keep your heart-rate below a predetermined level to encourage long term strength and efficiency. It goes against all your natural instincts but after a while it begins to make sense. I struggle when an overweight man on a mountain-bike seems about to overtake me, and sneak briefly into the red. I'm unable to climb even Richmond Park's gentle hills without going a little over; and on the return journey on the South Circular, there are points where you have to make like Cipollini simply to survive.

I get home with a set of figures: average speed 14.5 mph, average heart-rate 125 bpm. I have no idea what they mean or how to improve them, but it's a start.

'Tis the Season

Richmond Park, Sunday morning. Freezing fog and a hangover. Ice crystals making patterns on my gloves and overshoes. The road surface like a greasy, black skating rink and clubmates huddled disconsolately in the cafe car park -- like the penguins from Madagascar. ("Well, this sucks") A break for a few days, from the bike and the blog. Seems like a good time to take it.

Just what I always wanted

Matt Seaton wrote entertainingly in the Guardian this week about Christmas and cyclists -- specifically about buying presents for your cycling significant other. In paraphrase, his point is "don't bother". Cyclists are devious, capricious and selfish. If they haven't already got a cycling-related object, they probably don't want it. If they do want it, they've probably already bought it for themselves -- and lied to you about how much it cost.

He's probably right, although there are some things that few cyclists would turn down if they were found in their stockings. With the weather turning icy in London this past week, my thoughts have been turning to an Assos jacket -- perhaps the Airblock 851, or even the outrageously expensive FuguJack. Incidentally, is the name FuguJack a Fuentes-style reference to Tony Rominger's dog, or a rare example of the world-famous Swiss humour?

And Rapha's pink, chain-print kit bag is so utterly wrong it's completely right.

Campagnolo's full toolkits are hard to find but still the holy grail for spanner-monkeys everywhere. I've already got all the Campag tools I need -- the others in the kit are either obsolete or only relevant if you're pressing twenty headsets a day -- but who wouldn't want the polished wood box as a workshop centrepiece?

You can't go wrong with socks -- no cyclist ever has enough - as long as they're short and white, with no pretence at coloured faux-pro or, heaven forbid, long and black like Armstrong.

Slightly more left-field, how about scouring E-bay for a musette or two? Always useful rolled up in your jersey pocket for those last-minute on the road purchases. Tim Hilton recommends carrying a musette to store edible road kill -- in his book "One more kilometre and we're in the showers", he talks fondly of pedalling home from a country run with a still-warm hare on his back.

Incidentally, if you've never read Tim's book, do so immediately. It's eccentric, discursive and hugely enjoyable -- every page packed with a love of bikes and life.

Francophones should check out the Caverne Du Sport for old copies of Miroir Cyclisme and the like. Even if you don't speak French, the photos and adverts are wonderfully atmospheric.

And finally, how about some home-made recycled bike trinkets? The Nuovo Record key-ring was sourced from my parts bin, but the classic pie-crust levers are cheap and plentiful through E-bay or bike jumbles. A bit of solder and some silver wire and your significant cyclist could be sporting a fetching pair of lightweight earrings.

Just Like Beppe's

I've never been a big one for bike porn. Top end bikes long ago passed the point at which I will ever be able to afford one; and modern machines are so brutally functional they no longer lift my heart the way a handmade Reynolds or Columbus frame once could. Those articles towards the back of the glossies, where a recently retired pro rides the latest carbon extravagance someplace photogenic, have my eyes glazing over in seconds.

Even if I could afford one, I'd be terrified to ride it. Earlier this year, I took my son to the Manchester Velodrome to watch the Track World Cup. A hugely enjoyable weekend, enlivened by the occasional spectacular crash. As body after body piled into the pine-work, I watched horrified as carbon frames splintered into very small, very expensive pieces. At least with my bikes, there's a fighting chance of unbending or rebrazing them if I drop one.

But one star of this year's bike shows captured my imagination like nothing else - and just to make sure there's no escape, it features in an advert in this week's comic.

Ernesto Colnago's 2007 take on the classic Master is a thing of beauty. In the deep red, white and chrome that Beppe Saronni rode to such effect at Goodwood in '82; the whole thing is designed to make old men go weak at the knees. And it's steel; cared for properly it will last a lifetime.

For me, it would be a rekindling of an old love -- tinged with regret. In the mid-eighties, I was a regular at Ken Bird's shop in Crystal Palace. Every week, I would gaze longingly at the wine-red Colnago frame hanging in his window until the temptation proved too much -- I stuffed a bundle of notes into Ken's hand and went home, proud owner of a genuine Italian superbike.

I built it up over a couple of weeks, scrounging most parts off my previous bike -- a 531c Raleigh; buying some new bits from Whiskers in Willesden and making one early Sunday morning dash to Paolo Garbini's in Soho, to make sure I could sneak in and buy some cables when he opened the shop before the club run.

I remember the sense of pride on its first outing (to be honest, it rode no better than the Raleigh); the way the chrome winked in the sun; and the howls of derision from clubmates when the brakes squealed.

I kept that Colnago for years, until the combined pressures of a growing family and the Inland Revenue forced me to sell it.

Although the new Master is "reasonably" priced (less than £1k for the frameset), I don't think it will be finding a home chez Flandrian any time soon. But I'd have it any day over its flashier, carbon cousins.

Details, details

An e-mail has flooded in.

Steve Clarke writes, via the Washing Machine Post, as a three-times veteran of Paris-Roubaix. He calls it 168 miles of hell - hard, long and dangerous -- which is just the sort of encouragement I'm looking for.

There's plenty of practical advice as well: ride the cobbles as fast as you can; double wrap the bars in gel-tape; keep it in the big ring -- the chain's less likely to come off; and fit Vittoria's 24mm Pave clinchers -- which sound like a good bet when my Conti GP3000's wear out.

But then he says "don't use your best bike -- you'll be too worried about crashing and damaging it". I only have three bikes: a spindly track machine that glares accusingly at me because it never gets taken out of the cellar; the Condor Tempo that I use for work and winter training (Paris-Roubaix on a 68 fixed? I don't think so) And my "best" bike -- a five year old steel Casati with carbon forks and Campag running gear.

It'll have to do -- although I'm uncertain about the wheels.

Mavic Aksiums are good, i.e. reasonably priced and solid -- training hoops, but I'm old school enough to worry that factory built wheels will never match the sheer bomb-proofness of a set of Open Pros tied and soldered by a proper wheelwright.

So that's another thing to lose sleep over for the next few months.

The book arrived today. "Go slower to get faster" says the back page blurb. What's not to love?

Catford Hill Climb Continued

The tarmac on Yorks Hill hardly ever sees the sun, buried as it is between towering trees whose branches intertwine to form a permanent canopy. On wet days, the surface can be treacherous: running water from nearby fields; damp leaves; clumps of mud and gravel in the centre of the road.

But as we made our way through the Kent countryside on race morning, the sky was a deep clear blue, the roads were dry and the North Downs were at their most beautiful. The elements were giving me no excuses.

The car park at the top of the hill was like stepping back several decades to the heyday of British club cycling: row upon row of bikes, modern carbon leaning against well-loved classic steel; the bright sponsored jerseys of the elite teams mixing with the familiar colours and evocative names of local clubs: the Norwood Paragon; Sydenham Wheelers; Kingston Phoenix; De Laune CC; the Bec; the San Fairy Ann (their name derived from wartime servicemen’s bastardisation of the French “Ce ne fait rien”) and the 34th Nomads.

The signing-in tent was manned by an impossibly old gent in faded gold and claret – the Catford colours.

Grasping my arm with a shaky hand, he looked into my eyes and smiled in the way locals do in horror films, when directing strangers to the Count’s castle.

“Ooh,” he said, with undisguised glee “you’ll be sorry you came”.

I already was. Number pinned on my back; I half-heartedly warmed up on some borrowed rollers before gingerly freewheeling down the hill to the start line.

An exceptionally tall and skinny rider from the Rapha Condor team was lined up before me, a small and fiercely fit-looking young woman from the equally serious agiskoviner.com outfit behind. I was just starting to worry about the very real possibility of being caught and passed – true humiliation on such a short course, when my number was called and a sturdy bloke grabbed my handlebars and seatpost, holding the bike upright, allowing me to click into the pedals.

“Rider number 19….30 seconds….”

I took several long, deep breaths as the starter continued in his flat, emotionless voice.

“Three, two, one…off”

When I was training to run the London Marathon, I read an article about how the body adapts to sudden, unaccustomed physical effort. Since Neanderthal times, it said, the body has been wired to conserve energy for truly vital activities, and protect ourselves from our own stupidity. Extreme effort should be reserved for those fight or flight emergencies – wrestling with bears or fleeing sabre-toothed tigers; anything else was a frittering of resources. So when modern man slipped on his trainers for a gentle jog around the park, primeval survival instincts would come into play. The legs and lungs would send warning messages to the brain urging it to put a stop to this pointless effort; the brain itself would begin its own spoiling campaign – filling with images of the warm bed just left, or the cosy pub just passed. If, after twenty minutes or so, you still hadn’t done the sensible thing and stopped – then the body would reluctantly swing into help mode: releasing endorphins to dull the pain and raise the spirits; pumping extra blood and oxygen to where they were most needed. This, the article claimed, was why the first twenty minutes of any hard physical activity always felt awful, and explained the well-known phenomenon of “second wind”.

One minute into the hill climb and I was firmly stuck in caveman territory. I knew I was going to stop and abandon; the only questions were where and when. Despite the absurdly low gear, my legs were burning and refusing to obey orders from my brain which was in any case fighting its own campaign to convince me of my stupidity.

On the first steep stretch of the hill there were just a handful of spectators – including a small girl and her mother – presumably dragged out to watch Dad make a fool of himself – shouting encouragement as I weaved past. No matter how tempting it was, I told myself, I couldn’t give up there: the little girl would probably think it was something to do with her shouting; she’d be upset – possibly for life. I would wind myself round the next bend, out of their sight, before climbing off.

Round the next bend stood another woman who yelled me on, then yelped as I lurched involuntarily towards her.

“Go on mate, keep it together – don’t lose it now” came an unseen voice from the shadows at the side of the course.

Another couple of yards and that would be it, I could just give up and slink over the line on foot; perhaps I could feign some mechanical problem: a foot pulled out of a pedal, a slipping seat post – anything that would end this horrible, grinding pain.

I looked ahead and saw the road, steepening yet again, packed with people – seemingly impassable – blue sky behind them. Somewhere in my consciousness I registered that this must be near the end.

I have seen countless mountain stages of the Tour De France on TV – the way the spectators form a screaming wall across the road, only parting at the last minute as the police motorbikes sweep through, clearing a narrow route for the riders and closing in behind them as they pass. I’d always thought how distracting it must be for the riders, how infuriating it must be to be pursued by some gurning clown in a costume, to wonder whether those idiots will really get out of the way.

Based on my Yorks Hill experience – it doesn’t make the slightest difference. I put my head down and aimed straight at the crowd; I was faintly aware of shouting, cheering, clapping and chants of “Up…up…up”, but had no concept of who was making the noise or what was going on around me. Before the race, I had fondly imagined that I might crest the hill and see my family at the side of the course – cheering me on. In reality, the baby Jesus and Three Wise Men could have set up a stall right in front of me and I would have been oblivious.

The hill finally flattened off, a white line passed underneath my front wheel and I coasted to an unsteady stop by the entrance to the car park.

I’d finished. A spectacularly slow time, but at least I hadn't given up. Unsure whether I should smile or cry, and uncertain whether I had the strength for either, I leaned forward across the handlebars and closed my eyes.

I became aware of two, interconnected, things – a sharp, burning pain in my chest every time I breathed in; and the fact that I was emitting extraordinary, hoarse grunts, like a Dutch porn star warming up for the money shot.

Never again, I told myself, would I do anything so stupid. Never again would I put myself through such unnecessary pain and distress. I would be happy doing what normal people do -- riding to work and occasional weekend outings; the fitness spins round Richmond Park, the odd long ride through the countryside – but nothing that would expose me to the humiliation and suffering of a competitive cycling event.

By that evening, the pain in my lungs was so bad I could barely speak a sentence without coughing, and I’d sent off my application form for Paris-Roubaix.

Flatlining

Still waiting for the book to arrive which will transform my training methods and drag me screaming into the 21st Century.

Brian claims that his method will make me faster, whilst allowing me to train less , and more slowly. I'm not sure that I could actually train more slowly without going backwards; and training less would simply involve staying in bed all day, but I'm willing to suspend disbelief.

So, in the interests of science, I dug my heart-rate monitor out of my running-gear drawer and strapped it on. Brian, who's a similar age to me, says his programme restricted him to less than 130 bpm on all rides.

This can't be right. I hit 150 putting my shoes on and barely dropped below it until I was sitting in the cafe afterwards. When I even approached a hill, a series of beeping alarms went off. I half expected a lugubrious Danish masseur to appear and say "Bjarne, look what you're doing to yourself, we are your friends, we can help".

(The previous line will only make sense if you've seen Overcoming -- which I recommend you do. It's very entertaining, especially now we know what Bjarne and Ivan were really up to).

Clearly this hi-tech training lark is more complicated than it seems. No wonder Chris Boardman always looked worried.

More from the Catford Hill Climb tomorrow.

How did we get here again?

So, to recap: a careless remark to my neighbour after the relatively gentle 56 miles between London and Brighton and it was all decided.

Less than 18 months after a life-threatening illness which had left me unable to walk more than a few steps, I was going to ride one of the world’s hardest bike events. On a training regime that, until now, consisted entirely of commuting through London traffic and a weekly, half-hearted spin round Richmond Park.

While it was hardly Lance Armstrong rising from his cancer ward to conquer the Tour de France, some training was clearly in order. And the only worthwhile training is specific training –something which would prepare me for a long, flat endurance event in the company of thousands of other riders over cobbled roads.

So I entered the Catford Hill Climb.

The Catford Hill Climb likes to bill itself as the world’s oldest bike race which, with some qualifications, is true. Strictly, it’s the competitive cycling event which has been run uninterrupted for the most years – but that wouldn’t look quite as snappy on the posters.

It’s organised by the Catford CC, one of England’s oldest cycling clubs and is held each year on the North Downs of Kent. “The Catford” as they are known, were formed in 1886 and, a year later, came up with the bright idea of staging a hill climbing competition near Westerham. Given the weight of Victorian bikes (at least 35lbs) and the rudimentary gearing, it was a miracle anyone got to the top at all. As it was, barely half of the 24 starters survived the course; but the event was clearly judged a success because it’s been an annual fixture ever since, on a variety of increasingly unpleasant inclines.

Since 1939, the Catford have settled on Yorks Hill, near Sevenoaks, which starts off innocuously enough before rearing up to a vicious 1-in-4 before the finish line. The course is around 700 yards long and the record stands at a shade over 1-minute 47seconds.

I still don’t understand the thought process which led me to think that this would in any way contribute to my being able to ride from Paris to Roubaix, but it was the only event I could contemplate entering at that stage. Yes, I was a couple of stone overweight; yes, I was a rubbish climber, but at least the agony would be over in a few minutes.

How wrong I was.

Welcome to the 21st Century

Curses! Looks like I might have to ride from Paris to Roubaix after all. I was hoping that -- after an Xmas stuffing myself with turkey, pudding and Newcastle Brown -- I might have a couple of tentative stabs at long rides then give up quietly, sneaking my bike back to the cellar and putting my feet up.

But Brian -- at the consistently entertaining Washing Machine Post -- has come up with some 21st Century multi-platform, social media shiznit that won't let me off the hook that easily.

First, he's told everyone on his blog about my plans. Then, he's recommended that I buy a book that will help build my base fitness level via heart-rate monitors, exertion levels, interval training etc.

I've got a heart-rate monitor somewhere, a relic of my marathon running days, but I've never been exactly scientific when it comes to training. I've always trained by "feel", loosely translated as riding a bit until I'm puffed and stopping for a cake -- which is probably why I'm so ludicrously slow.

If you've ever seen the film Overcoming -- you'll remember two things. First, the implacable physio Ole Kaare Føli, and his valiant efforts to stop Bjarne Riis's big bald head from imploding under terrifying stress levels. Second, poor old Carlos Sastre -- CSC's loveable Spanish nearly-man -- as he struggles in an unequal relationship with his power meter.

"I think maybe computer is more f*****ng clever than me" is his considered verdict, and I sympathise.

But it's time I moved into the modern world, so as soon as the book arrives I'll be mapping out a proper plan and doing intervals till my face turns blue.

Brian's training for London to Paris, I'm training for Paris-Roubaix -- we'll be comparing notes across the blogosphere.

I have a horrible suspicion that there's no going back now.

Winter Draws On

Proper winter weather in London this morning -- gritting lorries out, ice on car windscreens and barely warming up on the six miles to work. Our Summer visitors -- the hordes of fair-weather cyclists, seem finally to have taken the hint. The number of bikes on the road today was about a quarter what it was two or three months ago.

I know we're supposed to be pleased when bike use rises, but I can't help thinking that it's not always a positive thing. It may make other road users more aware of bikes; or it may just annoy them even more. And some of our Summer bretheren do themselves -- and us -- no favours.

I'm not sure who I dislike more: the ones who just sail through red lights as if they're exempt from traffic laws; or those who stop at the lights, but force their way past you to the front of the queue then delay everyone by wobbling off at barely walking pace.

My favourites are those well-bred young women -- my commuting route takes me through Sloane Square and Knightsbridge -- who carve through the traffic on shopping bikes, wearing flip-flops and floral dresses. They combine impressive straight-line speed with a recklessness more suited to the last 100 metres of a Tour stage sprint finish. It's like watching Djamolidine Abdoujaparov, but dressed from the Boden catalogue.

If we could get some of them into GB kit and swap their Pashley's for a decent track bike, they'd give Vicky Pendleton a run for her money.

Anyway, the onset of cold weather has sent them back to the Picadilly Line and their 4X4's, leaving the roads to the grumpy hardcore.

If you're still out there, chapeau, take care and make the most of it -- it's the Winter Solstice in a week or so, and it's all downhill from then on.

The Story So Far Pt. 2

Apologies to anyone who was looking forward to a review of dynamo lighting systems or more baseless speculation about pro riders' genitalia.

Instead, I thought I'd explain more about the core purpose of this blog -- to document the attempt by an overweight, under-trained, near fifty-year old to ride Paris-Roubaix, or at least the amateur sportive which runs over the same course as the classic race.

This late mid-life crisis was brought on by the realisation that half-a-century is a far more significant birthday than any previous one; and by a near-fatal illness that reminded me that putting things off until tomorrow is a privilege, not a right.

A Friday night in early 2007, sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of wine, I suddenly felt a bizarre, tingling paralysis in my neck and back, followed by a blinding headache and nausea. My wife had the presence of mind to call NHS Direct, who in turn called an ambulance which took me to the local hospital. Friday night in an inner-city A&E -- as a random headache case I wasn't a priority, until a spectacular vomiting fit convinced a doctor to see me in a side room.

It turned out that I'd had a subarachnoid brain haemorrhage -- a frightening condition which kills and cripples thousands each year. A week of tests and investigations produced a remarkably positive prognosis -- I would be one of the minority of sufferers who makes a full - or almost full - recovery.

I came back from hospital very different from the person who went in. Two years before, I had run a marathon -- now I could barely walk a hundred yards unaided. Leg and back pain -- apparently caused by blood leaving my brain via the nervous system -- meant that I couldn't sit on a bike, let alone pedal it.

But the bike was to prove vital in my recovery. A friend lent me his turbo trainer and I set it up next to my bed. Five minutes at a time at first, then longer and longer, until one day I was able to take the bike out of the front door and wobble down the road.

Even later, the same friend drove me to Richmond Park with my bike in the boot of the car. As I made the glorious freewheel down to Robin Hood Gate, I knew I was really on the way back.

As occupational therapy, I built a new bike. Oddly, the brain which struggled to remember simple daily tasks and refused to focus on reading, had no problems fine-tuning a ten-speed Campagnolo mech or installing a Chris King headset.

Five months later, my next door neighbour invited me to ride London to Brighton with him -- exactly twenty years after I last did it as a relatively fit club rider.

I made it up Ditchling Beacon: a few extra inches on my waist, a couple of extra teeth on the back cog, but otherwise unbowed.

As we sat on the prom, contemplating the sea over a couple of pints, my neighbour asked if I had any other rides planned.

"Oh, I don't know" I heard myself saying, full of sea air and lager "I've always fancied having a crack at Paris-Roubaix".

Perils of the Peloton Pt .1

In his excellent book The Escape Artist, Matt Seaton briefly touches on an issue of concern to all male cyclists -- shrinkage. This is, of course, a straightforward physiological phenomenon. At times of extreme effort, or extreme cold, the body is designed to channel blood and its vital oxygen to those areas which need it most -- in cyclists' case, usually the legs. It takes the blood from those areas it regards as superfluous -- fingers, noses and private parts.

So it is that after a particularly long or cold training session you find yourself with numb fingers and privates so shrivelled that you resemble a skinny Action Man doll.

In many ways the body is right. Cyclists are a weedy, asexual lot -- not renowned for their lustful behaviour: some old school pros believed in the theory that too much duvet activity had a detrimental effect on your performance the following day. They feared, as boxers did, "leaving their legs in the bedroom".

The legendary Sean Kelly once admitted abstaining from all such nocturnal functions before races -- for different periods depending on the length and severity of the event. One journalist calculated that -- taking into account the Grand Tours, the Classics, the World Championships, late-Summer criteriums and a couple of Six Days -- there was a good chance that Kelly's wife of several years was still a virgin.

Not everyone was so austere. Jacques Anquetil liked to prepare for a race with "a bottle of good burgundy and a woman", but he made both his daughter-in-law and his stepdaughter pregnant so was hardly a role model. Mario Cipollini was once asked whether he abstained from sex before racing. No, he replied, but I try not to have it while I'm racing.

I was reflecting on all of this as I surveyed my sadly depleted body after another long, cold training run this morning. How a sport that requires you to wear the most figure hugging and revealing of kit can leave you with so little to display.

A while ago, I bought a smart jersey and shorts combo from Dauphin Cycles near Box Hill. They are well made and stylish -- but with one fundamental flaw. They are almost see-through, especially in the wet; and pale blue and white are very unforgiving colours.

Unless, that is, you're Tom Boonen. Which is another reason -- along with his talent, palmares, money, and 16-year old model girlfriend -- to hate him. How can I put this delicately? Even after several hundred kilometres of racing and a full-on sprint, no matter how nippy the weather -- when Tornado Tom crosses the line and flings his hands in the air, he appears to have a toddler's arm stuck down his Quick Step shorts.

Put simply, and I apologise for offending more delicate readers -- Tom Boonen must have a huge cock.

The internet, a wonderful source of knowledge. I'm sorry for the slightly unfortunate tone of this post -- tomorrow I'll review dynamo lighting systems or something.

You pays your money

Speaking of Assos and Rapha, both brands get a mixed reaction in the online cycling community. It doesn't help that they're the go-to brands of the "more-money-than-sense" brigade. Rapha's marketing is stylish but sometimes tries too hard, and their occasional excesses (did anyone actually buy their £130 Riders Log?), add to the suspicion that someone is having a laugh at our expense.

And expense is the big issue with Assos -- received wisdom says good quality but way overpriced - and no longer "Handmade in Switzerland".

Credit where it's due, however -- and recent weeks have restored my faith in both brands.

Last year, I bought a Rapha Softshell Jacket in a sale at VeloRution -- reduced from laughably expensive to extremely expensive. I wore it a few times through the Spring but wasn't over-impressed. However, since the temperature dropped a while ago, it's become an essential element of my daily riding. It fits well: is warm, comfortable and showerproof and has some great features. It's also one of the few items of cycling kit -- actually the only one -- that attracts compliments from non-bikies off the bike. For winter commuting, worth its weight in gold -- which to be fair is probably not far off the recommended retail. And the Rapha winter hat is a godsend as well -- keeping my ears warm and the spray out of my eyes, while still lending me a faint air of Roger de Vlaeminck. You'd almost think it was worth 35 quid.

I also bought -- in another sale -- an Assos Climajet rainjacket. I first used it for commuting and wasn't immediately convinced. It felt restrictive, rode up annoyingly under my bag and made me sweat on mild, wet days. I've been using a much cheaper jacket from Endura, a birthday present from Mrs Flandrian.

But this morning, the heavens opened as I left Richmond Park and the Climajet suddenly made sense. A snug fit over my racing kit, the freezing rain just bounced off it -- and I arrived home half an hour later dry and comfortable apart from soaked, icy shoes.

Good design, good materials, fit for purpose -- I guess you can't get them on the cheap.

As I left the Roehampton Gate Cafe this morning, I noticed an old couple outside who I've seen quite a few times. He's in his sixties, trim and fit with a white beard and a lovely old Witcomb fixed. She's of similar age, riding a well-kept hybrid.

I took my rain-jacket from my pocket as the first drops of rain fell, and heard him say:

"Oh look, that feller's caping up -- we'd better not be too long".

Caping up. What a lovely phrase from a bye-gone era.

More of that lost charm can be found on a film from the golden days of British cycling, recommended by the excellent washingmachinepost blog.

A time for fixed

Richmond Park, Sunday morning. Traditional refuge of the London bikie.

Howling wind and dark, threatening skies but a break -- for an hour at least -- in the lashing rain that has afflicted the capital for the past five days.

The park is strangely quiet, even though I'm later than usual. Noticeably absent is the streaming peloton of city-boys, clad in Assos and Rapha, astride their Cervelos and Felts, who've become such a noticeable fixture of the park this year.

I don't really blame them for staying in their beds -- cycling is supposed to be fun, despite the hair-shirt nonsense of the old school clubman, which I sometimes find coming out of my own mouth.

In fact, I've previously been mystified by the way that some of the city cyclerati insist on taking their 5-grand carbon super-bikes on routine training runs in the pouring rain. You can almost hear the grit and muck grinding their delicate carbon and alloy into a paste.


In my day, your "best" bike was put away in September, not to reappear until March at the earliest. You rode through the off-season on your "winter"bike -- frequently with a 66 or 68-inch fixed gear and full mudguards.

For more than twenty years now, that's what I've done -- with a variety of old track and road frames and spare and salvaged bits. This year, thanks to the Government's excellent Ride to Work Scheme, I've been able to buy a beautiful fixed Condor Tempo to do the job. It's the perfect commuting bike, but also ideal for cold-month training. I may even try an audax or sportive on it -- although not Paris-Roubaix.

So go on, city boys -- stash the Cervelo 'till Spring, get yourself a winter hack and get out there.

Legs of the Gods

There are few things more strikingly stylish, sexy even, than a good pro-cyclist in full flow on his bike. Look at film of Fausto Coppi, surely one of the most stylish sportsmen ever, as his long, delicate legs spin him over a col; the terrifying force of nature that was Bernard Hinault – compact, powerful and aggressive, face set in a mask of anger and determination as he swept all opposition and obstacles aside; the incomparable Mario Cipollini, “the Lion King” super-fast, super-brave sprinter with the looks of a Mediterranean playboy and a flamboyant line in lycra fashion statements – pink, gold, zebra print, and – on one particularly memorable occasion, a one-piece suit made to look as though his skin had been flayed off, leaving his muscles on full view. Race officials would routinely shake their heads and punish him for infringing this or that clothing regulation and “Cipo” would smilingly pay their fine, toss his long golden locks and ride into the sunset with a podium girl on his crossbar.




Above all, watch Francesco Moser in “A Sunday in Hell”, Jorgen Leth’s legendary film about the 1976 Paris- Roubaix. Bent double at the waist, his back is ramrod-straight, perfectly still and parallel with the ground as his legs flow seemingly effortlessly in perfect circles. Then take a look at pro-riders, even lowly domestiques , before the start of races, as they glide and jink their bikes through the crowds of photographers, officials and hangers-on; relaxed and smooth, never braking, never making a wasteful movement – like so many shiny fish in a shoal, constant speed, constant flow – as though their machines are simply an extension of their bodies, or their bodies an extension of their machines. Their bikes, shoes, and clothing shine with an unnatural Technicolor glow, rivalled only by the impossibly deep, teak tans of their shaved, oiled and chiselled legs; awheel, a pro-cyclist is a brightly coloured God among men.


There are exceptions, of course. There were many reasons to dislike climber and French housewives’ favourite Richard Virenque – chief among them that he was a petulant cheat who denied drug use again and again, until the evidence was overwhelming and then tried to blame everyone but himself for his sins. But much of the vitriol aimed his way was undoubtedly because, well – he just didn’t look right on a bike. He was once described as resembling a frog on a matchbox, only slightly unfair, and a reasonable approximation of his cramped, ugly riding style.


And Floyd Landis, “winner” of the 2006 Tour, had already been deducted points by European fans for his charmless beard, backwards baseball caps and agricultural riding position long before any questions were raised about the honesty of his performances.



The bizarre, contradictory thing is this. Off their bikes, even the most stylish looking riders transform into freaks. Bodies which look natural, admirable, on bikes become ungainly, misshapen – like some ghastly laboratory experiment gone wrong. Massive legs, with sinewed calves and gargantuan thighs are joined to spindly, concave chests, skeletal shoulders and arms which would look under-developed on a frail schoolgirl. A traditional pre-Tour photo opportunity shows riders being given medical checks by the race Doctor. For this, they are required to strip off and have a stethoscope applied to their chests, or a rubber hammer swung theatrically at their kneecaps. The resulting pictures are not for the faint-hearted. Deeply suntanned faces, arms and legs frame milk-white sunken chests and exposed ribs; the skin stretched so paper-thin across their backs that one pro’s wife complained she could clearly see and feel the outlines of her husband’s internal organs. Away from their bikes, cyclists have a haunted, consumptive look, their movements are disjointed and their upper bodies are under-developed and frail, every unnecessary ounce of muscle above the waist is simply an extra burden to drag up hills or into the wind.


Even the ultra-stylish Fausto Coppi could look ungainly off his Bianchi – no amount of Italian knitwear, sports jackets and gold-rimmed sunglasses could disguise a faint resemblance to Mr Bean. Cycling though is all about hearts and legs. The Spanish five-times tour winner Miguel Indurain was reputed to have a heart twice the size of a normal human, and lungs so big they ballooned out below his ribcage.


And legs. Gnarled, distended lower limbs are a badge of pride among pros – the uglier the better. Sean Yates, the British super domestique who completed nine Tours De France, spent a glorious day in yellow and became one of Lance Armstrong’s most trusted lieutenants has a pair of legs so disfigured by varicose veins that they frighten small children. When racing, he would roll his shorts all the way up his thighs, like an old-fashioned bathing costume, to avoid the dreaded cyclists’ tan lines – an odd affectation for this least affected of men. No-one dared tell him that the tan lines were the least problematic aspect of his legs’ appearance.

The Road to Hell

A word or two about cobbles. To the uninitiated, they bring to mind the faux-Dickensian charm of the English market town or the classic chic of a quiet Parisian quartier. These are not the cobbles of Paris-Roubaix. The Flemish farmers who built many of these roads were unconcerned with aesthetics and style; they simply wanted to drive their carts from one place to another, but for much of the year the tracks were muddy and impassable. So they laid substantial bricks of granite, roughly the size of a family loaf, in loosely connected patterns, just close enough to ease the passage of an animal or a steel-rimmed wooden cartwheel.


The first such roads in this area were built by the Romans, although you imagine their efforts may have been more uniform and stylish. And some others date from the heyday of the mining industry, whose remnants litter the area - disused shafts, slag heaps, rusting machinery. The cobbled tracks were buckled, beaten and distorted by coal trucks, some pulled by animals, some by gangs of men and boys. Emile Zola’s great socialist novel Germinal is set in the mining village of Mareciennes, on the edge of the Arenberg Forest where today’s racers get their first taste of the real Roubaix cobbles. Germinal paints a grim picture of life, suffering and death in the nineteenth-century mines; existence in this region has never been easy.

Cobbled roads were relatively simple to build and maintain, but their days were numbered after the invention of Tarmac in the mid 19th-century. This mixture of tar and stone chippings, developed by the Scottish engineer John McAdam, was easy to apply, waterproof, smooth and grippy – even in the wet. It was the perfect platform for that other 19th-century invention – the internal combustion engine. Together, they revolutionised the world. As motor vehicles spread across Europe, so cobbled and dirt roads disappeared under their black sticky nemesis.

Apart from the rural backwoods of Northern France, where few saw the need to spend hard-earned francs improving roads which were lightly used – and then only by cattle, tractors and the odd farm truck. And wasn’t that symbol of French practicality, the Citroen 2CV, blessed with suspension specifically designed for just such surfaces? While the main routes between towns and villages increasingly became smooth streams of tarmac, on the back roads, the cobble stayed King.

The Rouleur

In my dreams, I am a Rouleur, the unglamorous, unsung workhorse of cycle racing.

The big man who sits on the front; braving the wind and rain and the flat Northern landscapes, dragging the pack down die-straight Roman-built roads until the weak fall from the back.

When I go riding with my neighbour Steve, we make an unlikely pair. He is short and slight, built like a jockey, or the flyweight boxer he once was. Faced with a hill, he stays seated and simply spins his legs a little faster, his lightweight aluminium bike gliding up the gradient as though glued to an asphalt elevator.

I don’t glide.

I’ve never asked Steve about his two-wheeled fantasies, like most cyclists our conversations tend towards the dour and pragmatic, but I imagine he sometimes fancies himself as a summer hero of the Alpine cols. Perhaps Federico Bahamontes, the Eagle of Toledo, whose climbing ability once put him so far ahead of his rivals that he waited at the top of an Alp in the Tour De France, eating an ice-cream, so he didn’t have to make the descent on his own. Or Robert Millar, the eccentric, fragile Scot, still the highest placed Briton in the Tour, who won the red-and-white spotted jersey of the King of the Mountains three times. Even Marco Pantani, “the Pirate”, big-eared and tiny-framed, an Italian mountain specialist who came back from terrible injuries to take on and beat the mighty Lance Armstrong, only to squander his life and talent on cocaine and paranoia – dead in a Rimini motel room at the age of 34. The cocktail of triumph, tragedy, bravery and romance that draws thousands to professional bike racing is easily encapsulated in the frail figure of the climber.

Nearly six feet tall and fourteen stone, I was never going to be a climber, and I have never had the wild-eyed recklessness and brutal aggression of the finish-line sprinter. But in my dreams I could be a rouleur, a flahute, a Flanders hard-man.

At the Tour De France, the big men spend much of their time in the so-called Autobus. By the time the Tour reaches the mountains, this group of heavier, slower riders hang behind the leading racers; one wheel ahead of the Voiture Balai, the minibus with a symbolic broom strapped to its roof, which sweeps up those who’ve decided enough is enough. Someone in their number will calculate mile-by-mile, how slowly they can ride yet still finish within the time limit for disqualification.

By this time, they will already have had their hour in the sun – some will have dropping back to the support car to pick up drinks or extra clothes for him, then fought their way to the front and held their course in the fifty-mile-an-hour dashes to the line, elbows out, nostrils flaring, heads down, which characterise the early stages of the Tour. Some will have babysat their team leader, sheltering him from the wind, straining and sprinting to catch back up.

Others will have spent their time watching rival teams as the peloton picked its nervous way through the early stages, ready to wind up the pace and smash opponents’ resolve; chase down those unwise enough to break away and go for glory; or set off themselves on madcap solo efforts, in a small break of riders doomed to be caught by the finish line but still happy if their sponsors’ jerseys get some prime time TV coverage, and their own names come to the attention of the team managers, the all-powerful Directeurs Sportifs

But for a few, their lives flourish not around the Grand Tours of Summer, but the Classics – the one day races of Spring and Autumn, on flatter roads, in unpredictable weather, when the great cols and alps are impassable and covered in snow. When the wind howls uninterrupted from the North Sea and the roads are wheel-rim deep in the mixture of rainwater, mud, agricultural chemicals and cowshit that American riders christened Flemish Toothpaste.

The Ronde Van Vlanderen - the Tour of Flanders; Ghent-Wevelgem; Liege-Bastogne-Liege; the Het Volk and Amstel Gold – harsh, brutal races in harsh, brutal landscapes. But the Queen of them all remains Paris-Roubaix.

The story so far

It was a pair of eyes that started it. That began my obsession. They were streaked with red, blank with pain and despair, not the eyes of a sportsman. The face they stared from was coated with dirt, blood and spittle; the brows were caked and ghostly.

I’d seen such eyes in photographs before: in the faces of frontline soldiers after days of battle and nights without sleep; rescue workers after hours scrabbling through rubble; miners back on the surface after ten hours struggling at the peculiar hell of a coal face. Never on a man who rode a pushbike for a living.

The eyes were focused far away. Somewhere back down the road – kilometres of bone-snapping, teeth-rattling dirt and cobbles; the farm roads of Northern France, which grind down, then batter and break, men and their fragile machines.

The owner of the face, and those eyes, was no ordinary bike rider, in no ordinary race. He was Sean Kelly, the hard man’s hard man, an Irish farm boy who converted his unique talent into Continental superstardom. His unique talent was suffering – longer and harder than anyone else. And he was riding Paris-Roubaix, otherwise known as L’Enfer Du Nord, the Hell of the North, Queen of the Classics – the world’s toughest bike race. What one leading race organiser accurately called “the last trace of madness in modern cycling.”

I saw that photograph more than 20 years ago, and I’ve been hooked ever since.