Swiss perfection

WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS A STATEMENT OF THE BLINDINGLY OBVIOUS: ASSOS CLOTHING IS A BIT PRICEY BUT RATHER GOOD.

I've always been a bit wary of the Assos 851 Jacket.  Partly its price, partly its Captain Scarlet styling.

But a little while ago, I cleared out half my cycling wardrobe on e-Bay -- including a Rapha Softshell, and realised too late that I wasn't remotely prepared for winter.  So I spent a substantial portion of the money raised on an Assos 851 -- a (relative) bargain, from an online supplier who seemed to have a job lot of odd colours and sizes.  It was advertised as black, but was bright blue when it arrived - which was luckily the colour I wanted anyway.  

They really are beautifully made -- thick and squidgy, shaped for riding, with lovely stylish touches.

Typically, the cold spell that had me freezing for the previous fortnight in my Prendas bargain winter jersey and arm-warmers disappeared overnight -- to be replaced with balmy, autumnal warmth.

So it wasn't until this week that I was able to properly test the jacket.  It's a winner.  Even when the ground is covered in frost and there's a vicious Northerly wind, I've been warm as toast, with just a Patagonia Capilene polo underneath.  Apparently the superbly-named Fugujack is designed for even colder weather, but it would probably be cheaper just to buy a top-of-the-range turbo and stay in.

I'm still not 100 percent converted to Assos.  It may just be my odd physique, but their jerseys seem to have a habit of riding up at the back, so you end up wearing a lycra bomber jacket -- good for eighties-themed discos, less good on the road.  And the 851 does away with any chance of layering -- the combination of vest, jersey, gilet, arm-warmers etc., that lets you vary your insulation over the course of a long ride.  

But in the right conditions, I think the 851 is probably the finest bit of cycling gear I've ever owned.  Maybe if I took out a second mortgage, I could get the matching tights.

Zut! Ou est ma souplesse?

Rotten weather has kept me off the Casati for nearly two months now, I don't like getting its fragile Italian steel coated in dirt, grit and salt solution; so I've been using the Temporary Pista as all-purpose trainer, weekend bike and runaround.

I fondly imagined that spinning a 68-inch fixed across some pretty mixed ground, including the odd big hill, would work wonders for my "souplesse": the quasi-mystical ability to turn the pedals with style and apparent lack of effort.  Old-time clubmen used to swear by riding fixed from when the clocks went back until Easter; come the next season, the theory went, you'd be out of the traps like a thoroughbred, fast and stylish.

So this morning, clear blue sky, cold but no rain for more than a week, I thought I'd give the geared bike a run out -- and see how much my form had improved.  Major letdown.  Despite the lightweight wheels and tyres, at least compared to the Pista's bulletproof Vittoria Pave's, and the ten-speed running gear -- I felt like a tugboat, pedalling squares for miles and wrenching myself up hills.

Clearly there's more to this "souplesse" lark than I thought.  

What a difference two years make...

Was it really just 24 months since Nicole Cooke was on BBC's Sports Personality of the Year, shoved up the back with the no-hopers, no promotional video, and being patronised by moon-faced professional Brummie Adrian Chiles?

Last night she was centre stage, glamorous and confident with the rest of Team GB's all-conquering cyclists on a night that utterly belonged to them.   

The BBC did its best to disadvantage the team -- forcing them to cycle down an improbably steep ramp and make right angled turns through the seated throng, but they carried it off well.  Not sure whether Chris Hoy's rear-wheel skid on to the stage was deliberate or whether he was genuinely trying to take out jug-eared potato snack salesman and part-time "personality" Gary Lineker.  If he'd succeeded, it would only have made Hoy's thousands of Scottish fans cheer even louder. 

The whole team acquitted themselves superbly -- modest, articulate and well-presented, especially Victoria Pendleton, (the memory of her in a Little Black Dress will keep many old cyclists warm throughout the coming winter nights.)  

All except for Bradley Wiggins - who looked like a madman who'd managed to get hold of a Team GB kit and wandered on set by mistake.  That is, of course, one of the many reasons we all love Bradley. 

Given his remarks about failing to capitalise on success after Athens,  it's good to see him making a few bob appearing in the John Lewis Xmas adverts (see picture above). Let's hope that keeps him off the laughing water until 2012.

So who would have thought it?  Cyclists are suddenly taken to the nation's hearts. Enjoy it while it lasts.  You know that pretty soon we'll be back where we belong -- derided as a bunch of red-light running drugged-up lycra louts.  

Give

I know all the evidence.  I've read the books -- his books, and his "enemies".  Sadly, I'm not as naive about the realities of pro-cycling as I once was.

But if you haven't seen this, check it out.  And do what he says.  He -- or someone on his team -- is a communication genius. 

There's no answer to that...

Ines Brun

If you've been riding for a while, you'll be used to the occasional idiot shouting at you from car or pavement.

Most of it doesn't rise above the level of "Hey mate, your wheels are going round..." or "Get off and milk it.."

If anything, the increased numbers of bikes on the road has been matched by a fall in the number of cretinous comments -- there are so many of us out there wearing silly clothes and riding daft-looking bikes that the village idiots have got bored; although I understand from female roadie friends that they're still the object of quite a bit of abuse.

But sometimes someone shouts something truly dumbfounding.  Yesterday I was winding my way back from a ride, on my regular shortcut which takes me through a "challenging" housing estate.  I've never had any trouble there, but it does have a higher than usual number of aggressive-looking canines and burned-out cars.

Walking towards me were three teenagers of the sort that the tabloids would label hoodies, with one of the aforementioned pit-bull type dogs,  and it was clear that I wasn't going to pass them without comment.

The middle one, a good foot taller than the others, looked at me with what appeared to be genuine fury, screwed up his face and bellowed:

"You! You think you're hard just 'cos you can ride no hands!"

Bizarrely unexpected, and I was half a mile away before I thought up a reply.

Thanks for the new gloves, Darling

A combination of family, work and lousy weather conspired to keep me off the bike across the weekend but, no matter -- this morning dawned bright blue and freezing cold in London, perfect for an early skive round the park.

Half a mile in, and I was already regretting selling my Rapha Softshell.  My long-sleeve jersey from the Prendas bargain bin is nice and visible (plastered with adverts for Belgian cat suppositories or similar), but not the warmest thing on the planet.  

And complete hand paralysis forced me to dive into Evans and buy an over-the-top pair of Goretex gloves, my Campag winter ones having gone missing somewhere during the house-move this summer.

Mildly pleasant surprise?  The price of bike gear has gone down, thanks to the Chancellor's desperation VAT cut.  Not by much, but every pound helps at this time of year.

Bad habits

I've been letting myself go a bit lately.  Well, not strictly myself.  Although I've sold all my Rapha gear on eBay, for reasons which I may well bore you with in a future post, I think I still cut a dash in my chosen mixture of ten-year old Assos and the best bits of the Prendas bargain bin.

It's my bike maintenance that's slacking.  When I commuted every day, my "work" bike would be cleaned and checked for wear, tear and potential problems at least once a week.  My "racing" bike -- which actually meant my "ride at the weekend if the sun's shining" bike would be washed down and checked after every outing. 

But pressures of self-employment and a new house mean they're lucky if they get a bucket of soapy water chucked over them now and then.  There's even less excuse now, because our new house features -- for the first time in my life -- a purpose designed bike workshop in the basement; it's only big enough for two bikes (plus my track frame on the wall), a stand, my tools, a kettle and a radio -- but it's a big improvement on the hallway or the garden. 

And the bikes are taking their revenge.  First, the frame cracked on my Tempo -- now the faults are lining up and nagging for attention.

I'd noticed a creaking from the Casati for a couple of weeks. 

In my experience, creaks should not be ignored.  A strange noise that appears to be coming from the front wheel usually means the cranks are about to fall off.  A clicking from around the bottom bracket is a sure sign that the headset is loose.  And, on one memorable occasion, what sounded like creaky handlebars on my Geoff Butler track frame was actually the seat-tube slowly detaching itself from the top-tube due to 30 years of accumulated internal rust.

Fifteen miles from home last week, I thought I'd give the Casati a once-over just to check where the creak was coming from.  I was disturbed to discover that half the spokes on the back wheel were the consistency of cooked spaghetti and it was rapidly turning oval.  Shamefaced, I re-trued it as best I could and limped home like a circus clown on a square-wheeled comedy bike.

So much for the bomb-proof old school 32-holers, although the fact that I've never once tuned them up may be partly to blame.

Stripping them down for a proper rebuild, I decided to swap the Vittoria Paves on to my winter fixed to replace the threadbare Conti Gatorskins.  Only then did I notice that the rear hub on my fixed was turning with all the smooth precision of a rusty gate post.  Five minutes with a pair of cone spanners got it spinning OK, but at the expense of a fractional amount of play -- sure sign of knackered bearings.  Again, a bit disappointing since it's only about 18-months old and hasn't had that hard a life.  

I've got a pair of ultra-strong 36-hole Mavic Open Pro track wheels which -- realistically -- are unlikely to be used in anger again; I should probably transfer them to my winter fixed but it seems an insult to them, and a final acceptance that my racing days -- such as they were -- are definitely over. 

 

Bring on the dark

It happens every year, but it's always a lovely surprise.  After the clocks go back, Richmond Park -- the London roadies' favourite sanctuary -- closes its gates at 4 o'clock every day.  So there's a glorious period when, for a couple of hours each day, the park is light enough to ride round but deserted.  Just me, a couple of other bikes, a few runners and thousands of wild animals.  And you can watch the lights go on all over the city.  It's a small vision of what the world could be like.

I know something similar happens on Summer evenings, but somehow the Autumn afternoons feel more special.

If you're anywhere near, join us.  But watch out for the deer -- the little devils get frisky when the sun goes down and they're hard to spot in the gloom.

Not waving, drowning

Has anyone else noticed a fundamental flaw with the route of the Giro in 2009?  It's starting in Venice.  Apparently, Basso's confirmed to ride, so it's a good job Bjarne taught him how to swim. 

Timely reminder

Woe! Twice woe! My lovely Condor Tempo is no more.

I was washing it last week and trying to work out if I could go a bit longer without adjusting the chain tension and changing the back tyre when I noticed a tiny crack in the paint around the seat-tube cluster.   Alarmingly, there was another - even smaller - one on the other side.

Hoping it was just a paint blemish, I took it into Condor this afternoon -- only to have the sad news confirmed.  Mine appears to be one of a small batch of steel frames with a manufacturing fault which leads to cracked seat tubes.  

To their credit, Condor seem to be handling it well.  There are no Tempo frames of the right size in stock at the moment, so they'll rebuild my parts onto a Pista frame (more track oriented, no mudguard clearance) and I can ride that until the next shipment arrives sometime in December.  Then I get a new bike.

The new Tempos are dark blue, apparently, instead of the tasteful Saronni-red that mine came in -- but I think I can live with that.

I'll miss it though -- it was a great all-round, all-weather bike which was increasingly becoming my bike of choice for all kinds of riding, not just urban commuting.

And a reminder of how important it is to wash and check your bike frequently.  It's the second time I've discovered a cracked frame like that -- far better than finding it on a downhill.

More random velo-memories

• Jason Kenny brought down in a crash with his Australian opponent just yards from the line, crossing it at speed on his backside and still having the presence of mind to fling his arms up in victory celebration.  That's class.
• Kenny and Perkins sustained some nasty-looking cuts and bruises in that crash -- which would have kept me off the bike for a couple of weeks.  The pair of them were back at it the next day, riding just as hard and just as close.
• The music reaching newly absurd heights.  German victory in the Madison brought a rare outing for Nena's Cold War anthem "99 Luftballons" and any mention of the JKA Keirin was an excuse to dust off the Vapors' masturbation hymn "Turning Japanese".  The one occasion they got it gloriously right?  The GB men's pursuit team cruised round on their victory lap to the strains of "The Boys are Back in Town".  Not a dry eye in the house.
• There's an old fella with a shaggy perm whose sole job appears to be to wipe down the Belgian women's team with a damp flannel after each race.  You never see jobs like that advertised, do you?
• The sheer physical effort -- as well as the danger -- of the racing.  One of the German women was on her back by the finish line for a good ten minutes before she was able to get up and walk unsteadily back to her pit area; worse, a young Hong Kong 500m time-trial competitor who took even longer to stagger back, like some late night drunk, collapsing to her knees every couple of yards.
• Dave Brailsford, GB Cycling supremo, stood next to us as young Matt Crampton stormed to victory in a Keirin heat -- apparently utterly unemotional even as the crowd went hysterical. Another day in the office, with his team doing what they're expected to do. 
• Typical. Just when I think I've got a clear shot of the British Cycling stand -- three grinning idiots come along and spoil it.

Same Old Song

Cycling and bad music go together like Gin and Tonic.  Or, to put it in an appropriately Manchester context, chips and gravy. 

The caravan which precedes the Tour de France peloton is accompanied by fromage-dripping accordion musak, and the continental Six-Days are ridden against a background of high-octane commercial techno.  

But the music selection at today's Track World Cup hit new heights of audio weirdness and whoever was behind it is either a genius or seriously disturbed.

I'd grown used to the, frankly barmy,  idea of playing "Zorba's Theme" for primes and the hackneyed "We Will Rock You" to hype crowd tension before match sprints but today we entered the Twilight Zone.

The merest hint of an Italian rider was greeted with blasts of the outrageously stereotypical Mambo Italiano (sample lyrics "Hey Mambo, don't want a tarantella, Hey Mambo, no more mozarella"). 

And any rider from Holland was serenaded with a bizarre oompah tune of mysterious origin. Despite having quite a lot of family in the Netherlands, my Dutch is non-existent, so the song may well be a stirring patriotic call to arms. Or it may translate as "Hey, fatty in the orange suit, you know you're very slow, pull up the banking now (oompah, oompah)", in which case I applaud a subtle piece of multi-lingual sledging. 

In the course of a single men's sprint match we were treated to extracts of a Strauss waltz, Joey Ramone's cover of "What a Wonderful World", SL2's "On a Ragga Tip" and Blur's "Parklife" -- a playlist of such a determinedly eclectic nature that it wouldn't have disgraced the late John Peel.

The other repetitive tune of the day, of course, was God Save the Queen (not the Sex Pistols' version) which was played at every single one of the victory ceremonies.  How long is it going to be before the other cycling nations do the two-wheeled equivalent of "taking their ball back" and refuse to play with us any more?

I tried again to get a picture of the British Cycling stand, but a Paul Weller look-alike contest was taking place.  As you can see, the winner was quite convincing.

 

Random Thoughts from the velodrome

• Among the many things I never thought I'd see in my lifetime? Ticket touts outside a track cycling event.  I've been to some track races (alright, I've ridden some of them) where the number of people circling the banking on bikes outnumbered the number of people watching. But yesterday afternoon, as we made our way to the Velodrome, there were a couple of scallies in smart casuals offering tickets at inflated prices.  
• Another? Two immaculate Colnagos, leaning unlocked outside a Manchester McDonalds. Their owners, riders from Hong Kong's track team, were missing no opportunity to stock up on carbs and essential fats. 
• Clearly, some of the crowd here are newcomers -- struggling with many of the arcane intricacies of track racing.  To be fair, halfway through the men's scratch race I gave up trying to work out which riders were a lap up, who was two laps up and who was off the back and resorted to shouting "Come on, Bradley", with everyone else.
• Although it's a partisan crowd, cheering all British riders to the rafters, it's also a knowledgeable one which recognises quality riding above everything else.  The cheers for Francois Pervis when the Cofidis rider edged Jason Kenny by less than a tyre's width in an exciting keirin final were genuine and generous.
• Victoria Pendleton is awesome.  Just awesome.  Without taking anything away from her at all, you can see her opponents visibly giving up the minute she starts turning on the power.   
• I wanted to get a picture of the nice new British Cycling stand by the South Curve, but some fat bloke was being interviewed in front of it.

Shameless Trackies

Off to Manchester tomorrow, for the latest round of the Track World Cup.

It will be interesting to see whether the post-Beijing hysteria over track cycling has affected the event.  Apparently, tickets sold out in record time and many of those attending are likely to be first-timers.  Hope they're not disappointed.

Previous World Cups at the Velodrome have been really enjoyable -- exciting racing, well organised but with a laid back, friendly atmosphere and a chance to get close to the action and the riders.  Though not too close, obviously -- especially since Yvonne Hijgenaar's lawyers obtained an injunction preventing me from going within 100m of their client while she was wearing a skin-suit. 

I will be able to renew my acquaintance with the perfect training diet -- roast beef rolls with gravy, washed down by warm Boddington's -- an ideal combination of carbs, protein and fluid largely responsible for the success of the GB track squad.  Bradley Wiggins swears by it. 

I shall probably take the macbook with me and may even blog from the event -- just like a proper reporter.   I was sceptical about facilities "up North" but Mrs Flandrian, who's from round there, claims that things have changed and they've now got the internet and everything.

We shall see.

Pray for Fatty

Like thousands of others, I've been captivated by the writing of Elden Nelson, aka Fatty, and his blog.  He's written entertainingly about all aspects of cycling and movingly about his beloved wife's struggle with cancer.

Things are looking very dark now for Elden, Susan and their family.  

It feels as though we should be doing something, but of course there's little we can.  You can visit his blog and leave a message, as hundreds are doing. 

Or go out for a ride, preferably wearing your Fat Cyclist jersey, and thank whatever God you believe in for the continued well-being of those you love.  That's what I'll be doing tomorrow.

And  I'll be thinking of Fatty.

The importance of cool

Some intriguing cycling insights in November's Observer Sport Monthly.

First, top tailor and ex-roadie Sir Paul Smith on the importance of two-wheeled style:

"I remember when I started racing there was one boy who nearly always won and he'd got black socks instead of white socks.  Me and my friends were harassed by that 'How could he win? He's got black socks!'

Did you think of wearing black socks yourself?

"No, far too uncool. I'd sooner lose but look good.  No, that's not true. But the main thing with this boy was how brave he was. Even though I had a dream of being a professional cyclist, I would never have achieved it, because I'm not brave enough."

Sir Paul also admits, for the first time, that the horrendous crash that ended his racing career was probably caused by his "Buddy Holly" sunglasses -- which were so dark and thick-framed that he couldn't see where he was going.  Bet they looked cool, though.

Sunglasses were a rarity on British cyclists in the fifties and sixties -- a sure sign of a "Leaguer" and their funny continental ways.  Even when I started racing in the eighties, the majority of the pack were bare-eyed -- it took Greg Lemond and his huge-lensed Oakleys to make them acceptable.  And I still think the original Oakley Factory Pilots were the coolest cycling eyewear ever.  I had a blue pair and, despite their annoying tendency to lose their foam pads at critical moments, they were great.  Still available, for inflated sums, on E-bay.

Also in the magazine, an entertaining Q&A with triple Olympian Bradley Wiggins -- who displays a likeable obsession with various collectables: including scooters, guitars, boxing memorabilia and fancy shoes. 

"It's just what I am, whatever I go into I try to be the best at it....I have mad passionate periods discovering something and have to become a world expert on that". 

A male cyclist with obsessive tendencies, driven to take things to the extreme? I think that's most unusual, and will come as a surprise to the relatives of cyclists everywhere.

Heroes Pt.2

It's not often that I'm excited by encountering an inanimate object, but getting your hands on the FA Cup is genuinely a once-in-a-lifetime moment.   Eldest son and I were determined to have the moment recorded, especially since -- as a number of helpful bystanders pointed out -- it was the closest that two Crystal Palace fans were ever likely to get to it again.

We were at FA Headquarters for a very special occasion -- a reception for Geoff Thomas's New York Marathon team.   Geoff's story is well known: former Crystal Palace and England footballer, diagnosed with leukemia, makes a full recovery and -- partly inspired by Lance Armstrong -- decides to ride the route of the Tour De France to raise money for research. Having done that twice, he's still seeking new challenges -- hence the NY Marathon.

His team includes some well-known cycling figures including Brian Smith, Anthony McCrossan and Stephen Roche, who -- according to a well-placed insider last night -- has lost a lot of weight in training and is set for a respectable time.

Highlight of our evening was meeting Geoff in person -- a truly modest, inspiring man whose relaxed and friendly exterior clearly hides a steel determination.

The Geoff Thomas Foundation is aiming to raise £20 million over the next five years to fund early clinical trials of new blood cancer therapies.  Please consider donating money to this excellent cause.

And somewhere after the second beer, I think I may have expressed an interest in riding London to Paris next year.  Damn.  Here we go again.

Heroes

Later this week, my son and I may get to meet one of our great sporting heroes.  If it happens, readers of this blog can expect a full report and photos.  All three of you.

After twenty years or so as a journalist, I'm a little ambivalent about fame and celebrity. I've interviewed enough so-called heroes to have realistic expectations.  Some (Billy Bragg, Tanni Grey-Thompson, Tony Benn) have proved to be everything I hoped they would be.  Some (who shall remain nameless) have proved themselves to be complete a-holes. 

Twenty years ago, I interviewed a Living Cycling Legend.  He turned out to be charming, modest and funny,  but it was a short conversation before the interview that has stuck in my mind.  I was notionally interviewing him about his auto-biography which had been, inevitably, ghost-written by a journalist.

Me:  I really enjoyed the book.  (Writer) has done a great job -- it's not like most sports autobiographies, he's really managed to make it sound like you.

Living Cycling Legend:  Yes, I think he's done well. Loads of people have said that it sounds just like me.

Me: I imagine that must be an odd sensation -- what did you think when you first read the book?

LCL: Oh, I haven't read it.  

Me: But it's your autobiography -- the story of your life.  How can you not read it?

LCL: I suppose it is a bit odd. But I've never been one for the books.

Me: Err...but aren't you even a bit curious about what it says?

LCL:  Not really. (Long pause)  I did read a book once, though.  "Raise the Titanic", it was. Very interesting.  I enjoyed it.

Me:  But not enough to...

LCL: Read another one?  No, it's not for me.  Actually, I did read another book.  Can't remember the title now.  It was about the Titanic as well.  Didn't finish it, though.

Me (genuinely lost for words): Err....OK, shall we start the interview?

It's always struck me as an intriguing insight into the peloton, and a clear explanation of why Laurent Fignon was known, largely because he wore glasses and occasionally read a book without pictures, as The Professor.

 

Forza Paolo

I was flicking through the most recent copy of Rouleur the other day -- time passes slowly at Flandrian Towers and I've only just got round to reading it.  Is it just me, or is this copy heavy on arty photographs of fans but a bit light on, you know, words.  About cycling.  Not being picky, but I rather hoped for more for my nine quid.

Good article in there about iconic jerseys, though -- apparently the first of a two-part series.  I got to thinking about my favourite jerseys of all time and soon realised there's only one that works for me.

In the early eighties, Paolo Garbini, with his wife Mariela, ran a tiny, chaotic bike shop in the heart of London's Soho.  It's hard now to recall quite how different cycling was back then.  The mountain-bike boom was yet to happen, there were no indexed-gears, STI-levers or clipless pedals.  Jerseys were mainly wool or a gruesome knitted polyester and the chamois pads in shorts were real goat.

Local bike shops were core to the scene, their character usually set by the idiosyncrasies and eccentricities of their owners.  And there were few more idiosyncratic and eccentric than Paolo.

Short, skinny and red-haired, it was impossible to guess Paolo's age -- although he and Mariela had a teenage daughter who helped out in the shop.  His battle-worn but immaculate Alan-framed bike was prominently displayed by the door, and Paolo invariably wore cycling shorts and a jersey in the shop; but he was rarely spotted riding.  Most often he would be found sitting on the doorstep or in his tiny curtained office -- smoking his foul-smelling pipe.

From this shop, packed with exotic Italian jerseys, Campagnolo components in their beige cardboard packaging, walls lined with cuttings from the Gazetto Dello Sport, Paolo also ran the Soho Cycling Club, a loose collection of serious racers and weekend warriors -- popular with many of the expatriate Italians who worked in Soho's restaurant and catering trade.

On Sunday mornings, a ragbag of riders would meet outside the shop before setting off for a traditional 80-mile club run through the minor roads and hills of Kent or Surrey.  Often Paolo would join us, on the front of the group, swearing, telling long incomprehensible stories in English and engaging the Italian members in loud arguments.

It was my first proper club and I wore, and raced in, its jersey with pride.

The club, and Paolo's shop, are long gone but the jersey lives on.  In the Italian champion's colours, covered with the names of our local sponsors, including the iconic Bar Italia coffee house, it's still the most stylish and frequently admired item of bike clothing I own. 

And it's still in use at least once a week, although it fits a little more snugly than twenty years ago.

It's a retro thing

I'm not sure I completely get some aspects of the current upsurge in retro bike clothing.  In particular, where's it going to stop?

I can understand the fascination with Molteni, Faema and even Peugeot.  You may just be advertising  sausages and coffee machines but they're design classics, icons from a simpler time when team kits didn't scream a thousand mixed messages.

From a later era, the Del Tongo and Brooklyn jerseys are still stylish and timeless.  

But now we're being urged to buy "classic" PDM and Reynolds kit and I'm not sure I'm with that particular programme.  Still less do I buy the idea that Mapei holds any magic.  Not only does it make you look like you've been attacked by a colour-blind madman with a box of Sharpies, it's now generally accepted that the team were a bunch of cheating toe-rags.

I'm surprised that one of the truly iconic '80's team kits, the Mondrian-inspired La Vie Claire-Look outfit, hasn't been made available.  It was one of the first to be widely adopted by "ordinary" riders, and I still regret throwing out my multi-coloured winter training jacket. Knowing the history of team owner Bernard Tapie, it's likely that some complicated legal issue lies behind its non-appearance.

Presumably, issues over copyright logos lie behind the design philosophy of New Zealand brand Solo.  They produce high-end, sublimation printed jerseys in national colours, featuring the logos of made-up brands.   If I find the idea of riding round dressed as a billboard for a Spanish central heating firm odd, I find it even odder that you'd want to advertise an imaginary Belgian beer.  But the jerseys look nice, and they're Kiwis, so I suppose we should cut them some slack.

It's probably safe to assume that some team kits will never be reissued.   Aqua e Sapone anyone?  Thought not.  Though I do think that, after the eyeball-searing horrors of the 90's,  kit design is going through a relatively tasteful phase, perhaps reflecting  a wider understanding of decent design among the general public.

In this month's Cycle Sport, there's a reminder of one truly ghastly kit that had been wiped from my memory.  I thought that Carrera Jeans' attempt to make their riders look as though they were wearing stone-washed denims was a low-point in cycling fashion, but I'd forgotten Castorama.

The French DIY chain designed their shirt and jerseys to look like workmens' blue bib overalls. 

Check out the Maurizio Fondriest article in Cycle Sport, and the photo with Laurent Fignon in the background.

Imagine the shame.  You are a two-time winner of the Tour De France, generally recognised as one of the coolest, most stylish racers ever.  You exude chilly Parisian chic and, with your gold rimmed glasses and ponytail, you would look entirely at home in the Deux Magots, arguing existentialism with Jean Paul and Simone.

Then your employer forces you to dress like Bob the Builder.  Tragic, truly tragic.

Good News...

...I think.  

Decent bike shops are thin on the ground, even in a city the size of London.  Condor are reliably well-stocked and the staff know what they're talking about, though you'd be looking at their prices for a very long time before you mistook them for cheap.

Some people swear by Mosquito Bikes or Sigma Sport -- though they're in the wrong part of town for me, and Cyclefit in Covent Garden has its fans as well.   Further out of town, there's the excellent Geoff Butler in Croydon and Pearsons down in Sutton. 

Years ago, FW Evans in Waterloo was a haven for roadies -- before the Evans brand grew like Topsy and became a  characterless nationwide retail chain.

There were a couple of other Evans branches in those days, but everyone knew that the one in "The Cut" was for the hardcore.  If you wanted serious racing bikes - new and secondhand, proper own-brand touring machines or bomb-proof handbuilt wheels, then Evans Waterloo was the place.

I bought a couple of excellent 531 racing frames there in the 'Eighties, and was once nearly talked into buying an aluminium, Colnago-badged, ex-pro-team bike which I suspect may have seen hard service in the Northern Classics and would probably have come unglued by the time I reached the Elephant and Castle roundabout.

In recent years, it's become just another bike shop, full of hybrids and anonymous Taiwanese racers but it's now going through a re-brand -- being advertised as "a road-riders paradise" with an emphasis on top road bikes and parts.

Good business sense, I suspect, given the explosion in road bike sales over the past year or so -- but good news as well for London's roadies.

What happened to Summer?

Every year it's the same.  

After Xmas, I have such high expectations of the coming  Summer and what I'm going to achieve. 

Long rides with eldest son, some bike camping trips, a good selection of sportives.  And what happens?  One day I wake up and it's already Autumn.  Like today.  And what have I done? Nothing.

Already time to be thinking about arm-warmers and winter rebuilds. Damn.  Next year, it'll be different.

Incidentally, in response to persistent speculation and rumour, I can confirm that I am planning to come out of retirement.  Obviously, I could happily rest on a palmares that includes a couple of second places in Tuesday night crits at Crystal Palace and a 26-minute ten.  But I believe the cause of slightly overweight fifty-year old cyclists needs global promotion.

Seriously. I'm OK about having the Texan back.  But not, please God, ugly cheating git Floyd Landis.  We've suffered enough.

Separated at birth?

                                                                                                                                     Captain Bertorelli 

Fillipo Pozzato

Red Chains

Red chains.  They're another harbinger of the apocalypse. Possibly. I'm sure they're mentioned somewhere in Revelations.

Not with me? Then you probably don't live in an overpriced, would-be-hip London borough where the fixed-gear road bike has become the twatterati's vehicle of choice.

You may have been aware of the, harmless, fashion for colour-coding fixed bikes -- white tyres, white stem, white grips etc., etc.  But yesterday, I rolled up at the lights next to someone with a black-framed singlespeed with bright red rims and matching chain. Every link enameled like a postbox.  What's that about?  How do you keep it clean?

All questions I would have asked the owner but (a) she was having enough trouble riding the bike without speaking as well, (b) she really didn't look too friendly.

Despite my occasional Grumpy Old Man outbursts, I'm delighted that more and more people are taking up cycling.  

Riding fixed has been part of my cycling life for nearly 30 years.  My winter hack always had a 66-inch on it, so did everyone else's.  About 20 years ago, I noticed some London couriers riding fixed and realised how suited to commuting my winter hack would be.  Almost on the spot, I abandoned my commuting bike of the time (a Saracen Conquest) and dug out my Dawes Galaxy with the fixed rear-end. 

Since then, the majority of my miles have been fixed.   On a selection of home-builds of varying quality -- until last year when I managed to wangle a beautiful Condor through the bike-to-work scheme.

One of my rides -- a lovely but fragile 1960's Geoff Butler road/path -- was so well known among London's then relatively small fixed community that people would stop at traffic lights to chat about it.

In the past year or so, fixed-gear fever has gone epidemic.  

There's a sense of losing something special -- like when a favourite new band that no-one else knows about has a hit single; but mostly it's positive.

Except for one thing.  Security has never been an issue with my fixed bikes.  I've always been reassured by the fact that the average bike thief would be far more likely to nick a hybrid or a cheap, easily resold mountain bike than mine.  Who wants a ratty-looking old thing with drop handlebars and no gears.  And even if they did nick it, how far would they get?

All that's changed of course.  Fixed are now eminently resellable and  the scallies know that; and stripped down singlespeeds have replaced BMX's as the interim transport of the drug dealers on our local estate (before they graduate to Audi TT's).

Give them a year, and they'll have moved on to something else.  But make sure you keep an eye on your bike 'till then.

What a difference a day makes Pt 2

Good ride today -- aside from the Mercedes incident; warm, still and dry -- and my body vaguely obeying my instructions for once.

Which was a relief, because Saturday was a stinker.  We were in drought-stricken Andalucia for the worst period of the British "summer", but it's still been a fairly miserable couple of months.

Saturday, though, dawned clear, cold and bright and with a definite feel of Autumn in the air -- probably my favourite time of year. 

But I was pedalling squares all the way.  Slow on the flats, wheezing on the hills and struggling into the wind: a bike ride is normally guaranteed to cheer me up but as the ride progressed I got steadily more crabby.

Even the sunshine in Richmond Park failed to lift the gloom and I became increasingly, irrationally irritated by, in no particular order:

• People riding Cervelos in full CSC kit
• People riding really slowly on full-aero time-trial bars
• People with v-shaped, twin water-bottle holders behind their saddles
• A really fat bloke with ultra-lightweight carbon racing wheels -- c'mon, City Boy, even you can see the inherent logical flaw there, right?
• The two oldish riders sitting outside the cafe in perfect, retro Italian jerseys -- loudly discussing the relative merits of vintage Campagnolo groupsets (although only because they reminded me of the sort of dreary misanthrope I could probably become unless I got my act together pretty quickly)

So glad that normal service was resumed today.  Measured your quads yet?

Justice

Seen to be done.

Early this morning, cranking my way up a long steep hill, I was passed - way too close, way too fast - by an idiot in a bronze Mercedes coupe.

Literally less than half-a-mile later, I came across the same Mercedes, stopped in a lay-by with the driver by the side of the road, being given a ticket by a traffic cop with a speed-gun.

I briefly considered a Paolo Bettini-style rifle celebration, but contented myself with a broad grin instead.

Quadtastic

Years ago, in what passed for my track racing heyday, I had a T-shirt which read "I'm not fat, I'm a sprinter".

Total lie, of course -- I couldn't sprint the skin off a rice pudding.  Something to do with my "fast-twitch" muscles being completely outnumbered by my "can't-be-arsed-to-twitch-at-all-muscles".

Maybe I should dig it out of the drawer again now; thanks to Sir Christopher Hoy (Lord Hoy of Meadowbank?), the British public are used to the idea of cyclists being hulking musclemen rather than skinny runts -- Hoy's massive shoulders and quads like Iberian hams will be the defining memory for many of Beijing 2008.

And speaking of thigh muscles, I've been entertained by Beth Bikes, a cute blog from a Northern California trackie who's obsessed -- in a good way -- with her quads.

Like some Bridget Jones of the velodrome, Beth measures her own -- and other riders' -- and publishes the results on her site.  Hers are currently an impressive 63.5 cm at  the widest point, only a few centimetres  short of Gregory Bauge and his trouser-ripping 69-ers.

Beth's currently engaged in a battle to convince Michael Ball (not the West End Musical Star), CEO of Rock and Republic clothing, to make a "Keirin-cut" jean, specifically designed for women with larger quads than the average scrawny supermodel.

It's not a problem I've really encountered -- if I ever attempted to wear skinny-indy-boy jeans, my wife and daughters would never speak to me again.  And Gap's straight-cut fit me fine.  But Beth's case is a worthy one so give her some support.

Life magazine once printed a life-size photo of Muhammad Ali's clenched right fist. The picture editor said the genius of it was that no-one -- male or female, young or old -- could resist laying their own hand on the page to see how it compared.

And no-one reading Beth's blog can resist digging the Ikea soft tape measure out of the cupboard and measuring their own quads.

60 cm since you ask, and not a milimetre of fat.

No cheating, now.

Alberto's long lost twin

I was reading Procycling's profile of Alberto Contador by my Spanish holiday poolside when I was struck by the remarkable similarities between myself and CSC's Puerto-dodging stage race superstar. 

Some of the similarities are obvious, of course -- the slim, athletic build;  dark good looks and natural ability on the bike -- but others are less so.

Both Alberto and I have recently made (hopefully) full recoveries from life-threatening cerebral haemorrhages.  In his case, he's gone on to win a couple of Grand Tours; in mine -- well, I've finished a a few sportives and I didn't actually come last in the Catford Hill Climb. 

Also, and here's where we really enter the Twilight Zone -- our choice of holiday venue.  

When Alberto got the fateful call from Johann Bruyneel to say that his services were required in the Giro after all, he was relaxing in his Speedos on the beach at Chiclana, the nondescript Andalucian Atlantic town selected by the Flandrian family for our annual two-weeks by the sea.

The sceptical Italian press -- convinced Bertie had secretly been climbing cols or undergoing some covert "training" of another kind -- wrote dismissively of the "Chiclana Preparation Method", leading his girlfriend Macarena to brandish restaurant bills from their holiday as proof.

The "Chiclana Preparation Method" sounded right up my street, and I lost no time getting stuck in to the local food and drink just like Alberto.  In fact, I have obtained copies of one of his restaurant bills and the comparison with mine makes compelling reading:

Alberto Contador

Finca San Juan, Chiclana De La Frontera

May 5

1 x Agua Minerale Sin Gas

1 x Dorada

1 x Ensalada Mixta

1x Cafe Solo

Flandrian:

Finca San Juan, Chiclana De La Frontera

Aug 3

2x Finos

3x Cervezas San Miguel

1x Gambas Aioli

1x Entrecot de ternera, patatas fritas

1x btlla Marques De Caceres Rioja 

1x Churros con chocolate "Jan Ulrich"

1x Cafe solo

Uncannily similar, I think you'll agree.  After a few meals like that and a couple of swift rides round my 35k seaside training loop, I felt ready to take on the Passo Di Gavia and no mistake.

I was so intrigued by the connection with Alberto that I even -- for only the second time in 17 years -- drew Mrs Flandrian's attention to an article in a cycling magazine.  She glanced up from her 700-page feminist novel for 15 seconds before remarking that she would be more interested if my paycheque, or my backside, were the same size as his.

This, of course, was simply another example of the famous dry Northern sense of humour, and not to be taken seriously.

The following day, for instance, as we drove to the beach we came up behind a lone young Spanish roadie and I made a mildly disparaging remark about his white bib-shorts.

Mrs Flandrian examined him at some length before commenting.

"I'm sure you're right dear, but I think he can get away with it where you can't"

How we laughed. 

 

Donde esta el Flandrian?

Me and Gordon, we're both off on our holidays.  Not to the same place.  If Clickair don't bend the Casati, I shall be riding for two weeks in the land of Sastre, Indurain and chilled white Rioja.

Hasta Luego.

And your mother...

Hooray. The nice guy won.  Sorry, I've been busy.

And, yes I do know how many years Carlos spent with Manolo Saiz, and how long he's been under the wing of "Mr 60 percent" at CSC but I don't care.  He won with a daring breakaway on a crucial stage,  he's got two very cute kids and he's not Cadel bloody Evans.

Speaking of arrogant Australian arseholes, I'm still puzzling over an incident on Sunday. 

After 30 years, I'm immune to the fact that some drivers are clueless.  These days, it really doesn't bother me much.  I used to get into fights on a regular basis  but after a particularly gruesome confrontation in the late eighties between me on my Colnago and a bread van driver in Maida Vale, I came to my senses.

I worked out the logical conclusion to my behaviour -- I would either end up killing someone, or be killed myself.  Neither was to be encouraged.

Ever since, I have been a model of Zen calm on the bike -- trying to ride fast, on "the high side" as recommended by Richard Ballantine, but courteously.  I stop at lights and wave pedestrians over crossings with a smile.  In return, most of my rides are relatively stress free and pleasant. 

Incidentally, is it just me or, since the departure of Matt Seaton, has the Guardian's "Two Wheels" column become a soapbox for mithering old moaners doing their best to scare people off riding a bike?

I digress.

Sunday morning. Clear blue skies, light wind -- Richmond Park.  Myself and my regular riding partner are circling at a fair clip -- just under 40kph, (I've recently replaced the battery in my Cateye and can't be bothered to reset it to mph).  Some of the time we're riding each other's wheels, mostly we're side by side -- no more than a handlebar's width apart. 

Suddenly, another rider appears and begins shouting angrily, in an Australian accent.

"Are you going to f****ing overtake or what?", before riding off ahead.  My riding partner, not a man to be trifled with in matters of bike etiquette, sprints to catch up and harsh words are exchanged.  The Australian -- wearing nasty white sunglasses and what appear to be baggy mountain bike shorts -- undermines his cool further by cocking up a gear change and being left behind.  

But, ten minutes later -- he's back with us, shouting again -- slightly less aggressively -- about "showing respect to other riders", and "making way for people coming up behind you".

Did I miss another memo from Cycling Headquarters?  

I'm genuinely not aware of any rule or convention that says two people can't ride side by side on an open road because they might block "faster" riders.  If a pack of riders were coming through at speed, I'd certainly pull back to single file (especially if they were London Dynamo, but that's a different issue).

Otherwise, if I'm riding on my own I'm perfectly happy to pass small groups of riders if they're going slower than me.  Perhaps it's different elsewhere.

Perhaps that's why Cadel Evans is so miserable.

   

 

 

May the best man win

Gripping Tour stage to Alpe D'Huez, and ITV4 must have been delighted that they chose today to broadcast the whole stage live.

Fans of Overcoming can't fail to have some affection for the little climber Carlos Sastre - his enthusiasm and dedication,  above all his general niceness, humanity and obvious love for his family.

Classic team performance from CSC as well.

It would be unexpectedly delightful if Carlos managed to hold on to yellow all the way to the podium in Paris.

  

Freakshow

Just when I think that road cycling has truly entered the mainstream, something always happens to remind me of the uncomfortable truth -- we are freaks, unwelcome in polite society.

As the school holidays come closer, there's been a series of social events connected to my youngest son's school -- including a Saturday afternoon picnic.  I'd negotiated with Mrs Flandrian that I could go the picnic with them, spend a respectable time socialising, then disappear on a training ride for an hour or so.

So I rolled up -- on my Casati, in racing kit.   These are people who are used to seeing me with a bike and wearing bike gear -- I've hardly been hiding my velo-obsessiveness in a closet for the past four years -- but the reactions varied from the astonished to the faintly hostile.  I would have attracted less attention if I'd turned up in a tutu and wellingtons.

One mother puzzled for several minutes over the fact that I was riding for pleasure, i.e that I wasn't actually going anywhere or doing anything "useful", simply riding for the sake of it.  She recounted with horror the habits of a strange friend who "gets up every Sunday morning, rides to Richmond Park, goes two or three times round it and then comes home again" as if there was something deeply suspicious in his behaviour.  

"You probably know him", she said in a disapproving tone.  I had to explain that I don't know, personally, every one of the several hundred London riders who regularly use the capital's most cycling-friendly open space.  

When I turned up at a party with many of the same people that evening, my bizarre clothing and activities were still the subject of ridicule and debate.  One of the younger mothers had, apparently, been making frank, lewd and largely positive remarks about my calves, which was at least cheering - if a little weird.  While not quite the horror-show of a Hincapie or a Kelly, my calves are still sufficiently knobbly and riddled with varicose veins to scare small children.

And this is in a class where at least five other Dads are regular cyclists, one has completed the Etape, one London-to-Paris and another the Nueve Colli.   

What more do we have to do before we're regarded as normal?  Although, to be honest, is that what we really want?

 

Sick Note

The Fierce Physio was furious.

My shoulder, which had been on the mend, had now relapsed to a point where I couldn't bring my right hand across my chest and touch my left shoulder.  

(I know Cadel Evans is currently doing a fairly convincing job of holding on to the maillot jaune with a much worse shoulder injury than mine, but I'm a wimp.)

What - she demanded -- had caused this relapse?

Well, I explained, Mrs Flandrian had me digging holes in the garden at the weekend; and painting the walls in the cellar and, well, there was the small matter of a several 50k bike rides.

The Fierce Physio was shocked.  

"Gardening is very bad for it, you'll have to stay away from that. And painting? All that stretching out and applying pressure -- worse thing possible, don't do any more.  The cycling's not really a problem".

Heh, heh.

Just passing

32 quite hilly miles today, at a good fast pace.  My shoulder feels as though someone's  sticking a knife in-between the bony bits, but it's a big improvement on a month ago.

My riding companion and I took to discussing the general miserableness of some of the bikies you see out on the road -- with their head-down, grimacing unwillingness to acknowledge anyone else. 

Maynard Hershon has some theories on it, and Michael Hutchinson wrote recently in the Comic on a related theme -- what's the etiquette for passing a slower rider?  To talk or not to talk, to acknowledge or not?

To be honest, that's probably a bigger question for Hutch than me -- these days I sometimes struggle to pass old ladies on their Raleigh Shoppers (some of them have a vicious final sprint).

But there is one area of etiquette that does trouble me -- passing female riders.  Again, most women steam past me while I'm out on the road, but even I catch up and pass the occasional slower female cyclist.   

There seem to be three options, none of which is ideal:

• Put on a burst of speed and shoot past, reinforcing their belief that male cyclists are arrogant show-offs who have to display their testosterone-fuelled physical superiority at every opportunity
• Pass more slowly, offering pleasantries about the weather, the gradient of the road etc.,   probably raising the fear that this is a socially-inept attempt at a chat-up, and that if she responds she'll be stuck with you for at least the next ten miles
• Dither about, not passing her --  which suggests that you are simply a  pervert and are taking the opportunity to study her lycra-clad bottom

More complicated than you thought, isn't it?

I've taken to passing at a medium speed and offering a carefully-modulated, non-committal greeting, without making eye-contact.  

Most respond in kind -- some with a faint note of surprise in their voice,  although I'm not sure whether it's because they've been spoken to, or simply that this red-faced, wheezing fatty is somehow going slightly faster than them.

I'll continue my experiment and report back.  All other views welcome.

The Old Block

Nothing new about bike bling of course.  

Take this picture of a right 'flash harry' from the 1930's.  Apologies for the quality, but you might just be able to make out that it's a Bates BAR, with a chrome-plated frame and a new-fangled derailleur gear where a fixed hub would normally have been.

Wrist-length black leather gloves (were Rapha around even then?)  a white alpaca cycling jacket, white socks and black racing shoes are the icing on the two-wheeled cake.  

The dashing rider is my father.  Judging from the Anderson shelter in another photograph, they date from around 1940, when he would have been 18-years-old.   

A Bates BAR cost about 38 pounds in those days, when manual workers in Britain earned a little over 3 pounds a week.  My father was an apprentice in a bakery, so a bike like that was a significant investment.  

He put it to good use though -- here, he's on the way back from a massed-start race at Donnington Park to the family home in South London.  I'll repeat that -- he rode from South London to Donnington Park, took part in a race and rode home again.

And who could resist the cigar-shaped tubing, the wonky diadrant forks, the (5 pounds extra) chrome plating?

A passion for cycling and a love of style over financial common sense.  He passed a couple of things on to his son. 

 

When the man comes around

The incomparable NewYorkBikeSnob is fond of identifying signs and portents of what he believes is the forthcoming apocalypse -- according to him, at least one of the four horsemen will be riding a Bianchi track bike on the road.

I think I may have seen further evidence this morning of the imminent arrival of that fateful day.

I was trying to sneak in a quick training ride between rain showers when a pop and an unmistakable squidgy feeling announced a blown front tyre.  No disaster -- I had tools, a pump and a spare tube and, anyway, I'd just passed a branch of Evans, so I could get another spare tube for the onward journey. 

So I found myself in the bike shop, deserted except for one assistant, and another customer in front of me -- an expensively-dressed twenty-something whose Specialized race bike was propped up against the counter beside him. 

I'm not sure what model it was (to be honest, all Specialized and Trek's look the same to me) but there was a lot of carbon and it clearly wasn't entry-level.  He appeared to be buying a Specialized branded water bottle.

The conversation went -- verbatim -- like this:

Assistant:  "Is that everything, sir?"

Customer:  "Yes, thanks. Oh, do you do servicing here -- because I think my bike needs one?"

A: "Yes, of course"

C: "How much do you charge?"

A: "It's 55 pounds plus parts for a standard service"

C (clearly outraged): "What? You charge 55 quid for putting a bit of oil on the chain?"

A: "Er, no -- if you want us to oil your chain, we'll do that free, but the service means we adjust everything."

C (still outraged, staring at his bike): "But....it's a bike! What is there to adjust?"

A: "Er...gears, brakes, hubs, wheels - that sort of thing"

The customer stared at the assistant, then at me, tugged down the legs of his Assos shorts and departed without another word -- clearly convinced he was the victim of some massive leg-pull.

And during this conversation, I swear I heard the sound of ghostly horse-hooves heading through the Wandsworth one-way system.

As I was saying....

...before I was so rudely interrupted.  

Well, what a cock-up that was.  Regular readers of this blog, who I estimate number about three, will have noticed a distinct lack of posts.  And a distinct lack of news about my efforts in L'Enfer Du Nord. 

To cut a long and deeply depressing story short, I had to pull out with about a week to go when it became clear that the shoulder injury I picked up in the Alps in March was not going to heal any time soon, in fact it was getting worse.  

A week's, probably ill-advised, surfing in Devon was the final straw. 

There followed a long period of gloom, and not much on-bike time -- since even relatively short rides would result in numbness and an inability to perform relatively simple tasks, like eating or brushing my teeth.  

I didn't feel much like writing.

But, it's slowly getting better. To the extent that I've entered a longish (155k) sportive in September as a kick-start to my training for 2010

As to the blog - keep checking back.  I was spurred into posting by two things - first, Richard Lee's rather nice Cycling Art blog, which features a link to here -- shamefully showing no new contributions for two months.

And second, this fabulous picture from Stage 3 of the Tour.  Bernard "Le Blaireau" reminding a misguided protester why he was justly regarded as the hardest man in the peloton, and why nobody ever tried to take liberties on his watch.

Chapeau, Bernard -- a blow for old blokes everywhere.