Coming up short

I'm old enough that when I started cycling the chamois inserts in shorts were genuinely made from goats.

Thin, unpadded ovals; they were wonderfully soft and absorbent in the shop and for the first ride, but washing gave them the consistency and feel of coarse-grade sandpaper. 

 

To make it wearable, you had to grasp the insert with both hands and scrub like a demented Victorian washerwoman; then apply "chamois cream", a thick yellow gunk which just gave it the feel of sandpaper covered in axle grease.

Unsurprisingly, there seemed to be more cases of saddle sores, infections and the dreaded boils in those days; and you sympathised with those old-school pro's who would begin the day with a sirloin steak stuffed beneath their privates, ride a 200-mile stage and then fling the flattened, seasoned cut of meat to the hotel chef to prepare for that night's dinner.

Decent artificial chamois brought an end to all that, of course, and the reduction in cyclist-groin-to-animal-product-interaction has been one of the many improvements I've seen in cycling over the past twenty years.

But my increasing mileage in preparation for June has highlighted some, er, shortcomings in my shorts department -- and I've had to take action.  

I've ordered a new pair of Assos F1's -- suspiciously cheap off of that Ebay; and bought a tub of the same company's pricey new-age bum butter.

It's certainly a different product to the chamois cream of thirty years ago -- lightly perfumed and with the consistency of an expensive moisturiser.  Rather disturbingly, it warns "avoid intimate areas" -- how does that work, then? 

Initial impressions are favourable -- despite an unexpected warming sensation on first application.  Lance Armstrong apparently recommends some product used by American farmers on their cows' udders -- but I think I'll stick with the Swiss variety.

I'll keep you updated.  Although, obviously, not in too much detail.

 

Victoria's Secret

The latest Observer Sports Monthly -- due this Sunday -- looks like becoming a collector's edition. The cover features triple world champion and prime British Beijing medal hope Victoria Pendleton -- stark naked on a bike, in tasteful homage to Lance Armstrong's 1999 Vanity Fair pose.

I predict that this weekend will see pathetic scenes being played out across the UK.


Middle-aged men whose weekend routines do not normally include the reading of a Sunday paper will gather in furtive groups outside newsagents, waiting for them to open. They will seize copies of the Observer and rush to the privacy of their homes where they will tear the sports supplement from its plastic covering and feast their eyes on the loveliness thereon.


Within minutes, obsessive cries will issue from bedrooms across the land:


"Is that a Madone 6.5? I would have thought they could have stretched to a 6.9, myself -- or preferably used a Litespeed or something, although I suppose the Trek is meant as an Armstrong tribute -- and what are those wheels? Bontragers? They could have upgraded to a pair of Zipps at the very least, or some Lightweights. What cowboy put the bar tape on like that? It won't last five minutes. And the bars are at the wrong angle anyway. I wish she'd move her leg, I can't see what seatpost they've fitted....."


Sad, but you know it's true.

The Slippery Slope

I've always been a sock purist.  Short, plain and white -- the only only acceptable covering for a cyclist's lower leg.  

However, I have been tempted from the paths of purity and righteousness by a rather fetching item from someone calling himself "The Sock Guy".  Bright yellow "Lion of Flanders" socks -- how could you resist?

Luckily, they aren't available in the UK at the moment -- Wiggle claim to sell them, but they're not in stock. 

So I turned for my pressing sock needs to Prendas -- planning to buy a couple of plain white pairs to keep me going.  Temptation loomed in the form of some stylish Italian champion tricolores, and some Belgian ones done out in red, black and yellow and the slogan "Biere, Frites et Merckx". 

Reader, I succumbed.  They're still short -- and mainly white -- but I fear it may be the first step on a road which leads to the ultimate shame -- calf-length, black Lance-a-likes.

Lovely day today.  My legs came out for the first time this year, along with my summer-weight blue Dauphin kit (Hello, girls!).

Spring may be just over the horizon. 

The Escape Artist

Surprising news in the Guardian this morning -- Matt Seaton is giving up his cycling column, as of this week.

He implies that someone else will be taking over the slot, but no more details are given.

It's a shame. Seaton -- author of one of my favourite cycling books --displays the endearing mixture of intelligence and obsessiveness which characterises so many cyclists.

He has managed to combine an encyclopaedic knowledge of bikie trivia and lore with a welcoming approach to non-specialists and newcomers.

I wish him well with whatever his future role is, but he'll be missed on Thursdays.

The Man in Black

Freezing fog in Richmond Park this morning, an unexpected downer after days of clear blue skies.  

Halfway up the hill that leads to Richmond Gate, a police car was parked on the roadway -- doors open and a WPC standing alongside.  She took the opportunity to shout at me, berating my stupidity.  Given that I was grinding my way up a long hill on a fixed gear, she had quite a bit of time to express her opinions.  She was a bit like one of those mad Dutch fans on Alpe D'Huez, only slightly less encouraging.

"Oi, you!  Perhaps you should consider getting some lights on your bike!  Or maybe wearing a yellow jacket or something on your top?  'Cos you're not very visible in this weather, are you?  Just a little tip.  Bit of friendly advice, might stop you getting killed...."

And on she went.

In reply, I just waved in a friendly fashion and said "Thank you, officer!"  Partly because I was so short of breath that I didn't feel like engaging in longer discourse.  And partly, of course, because she was right.

I'd left my lights on the hall table -- it was daylight outside, after all.  And I was wearing my Rapha softshell -- highly commended for style and comfort, nuls points for its hi-viz police-friendliness. 

I skulked round for another few laps, chastened -- while idiots in cars with no lights hurtled past inches from me.  I met up with a club-mate, resplendent in our bright red and yellow winter kit and used her as a human shield from the half-blind four-wheelers.

I always use lights at night, and try to dress conspicuously - within reason -  but I'm not 100 percent convinced how much difference it makes.  At its worst, visibility today was down to a couple of hundred yards.  If you can't see another human being -- even one dressed all in black --- at that distance, you really shouldn't be out on the roads. 

Some of the drivers who went past today were engrossed in hand-held mobile conversations, one was texting.  It's a given that WPC Plod won't have shouted at them.

After 30 years of riding in London, I remain convinced that confident road positioning and speed are as important to your safety as bright clothing. 

To be honest, you could have lit yourself like a Christmas tree today, with a roman candle up your jacksie, and still not guaranteed that you were seen.

Let's be careful out there.

You're not going out wearing that, are you?

A couple of years ago, in connection with a work project, a woman offered to "do my colours" for me. She was a "colourologist", or similar; which meant she would examine my skin, eye and hair shades and offer advice about which colours would make me look the most gorgeous and give me the most confidence.

I don't want to denigrate what is obviously a highly skilled and valuable profession, but it seemed a bit of a doddle.  Essentially, she held what looked like a Dulux paint chart against my face and recoiled with varying degrees of horror.  Finally, she delivered her verdict: I should stick to strong, vibrant colours -- purples, forest green, cobalt blue and pillar box red. Under no circumstances was  I to go anywhere near pastels.  Especially not pink.

That's one reason why you won't see my name at the head of GC in the Giro this year -- the maglia rosa would do nothing for my skin tone.

I've obviously tried to follow her advice to the letter ever since; but it's not easy when you're a cyclist.  Bike clothing does tend to come in a range of sludge-like greys and dull muddy hues. Or, if it's pro team clothing -- more pastels than a tray of fairy cakes.  

Take this year's crop.  We've already discussed the drawbacks of pale blue and white clothing (they are many but they can all be filed under the heading "Male Genitalia; unnecessary drawing of attention to") so that's half the peloton ruled out before we start.

I don't actually mind the Slipstream-Chipotle effort: I accept that pale blue and orange are unlikely to trouble the rails at Versace this year, but I quite like the Argyle bits.  I almost wish they'd gone for the full Jimmy Tarbuck on the golf course effect instead of just highlights.

I guess it's just another factor which is likely to delay my call-up to the pro-ranks for another season ("Hello Johan, what's that? You want a tubby slowcoach to complete the team for Paris-Nice?  It's a nice thought but -- sky blue and yellow, with my skin? You know it's not happening, girlfriend")

My club kit is bright red, which is OK -- although the red panel in the back of the shorts reveals a little too much unsightly bum-crackage on male riders.

But my favourite current kit is -- on the face of it -- the least suitable.  As a Crystal Palace season ticket holder, I was always going to have a soft spot for Geoff Thomas.  And the chance to buy the full Geoff Thomas Foundation kit from Impsport was too good to miss -- buy new cycling clothes and donate to a good cause at the same time -- what's not to love?

Even if it is the most sickly shade of pale green and white, I wear it with pride. 

And  if you're anywhere near Manchester next Saturday, make sure you get along to the Velodrome for the latest Revolution meeting and watch Geoff thrash some lardy rugby-player in the Italian pursuit.

 

 

The Aloha Spirit

I always have to suppress a smile when the perennial issue of cyclists' friendliness -- especially towards newcomers -- comes up.

There's a letter in the comic again this week, praising the pro Stefan Schumacher for saying "hi" on a training ride, in comparison to the allegedly aloof and unfriendly types the writer has met "around London and the Surrey Hills".

I was responsible for a small controversy in my own club a while ago, when I questioned why some people wouldn't even acknowledge other members out on the roads. Someone replied that, as first and foremost a running club with a strong cycling section, many members had come into the sport without any grounding in the conventions of cycling clubs. Like being friendly to fellow members, presumably.

But the main reason I smile is that my other sport is surfing. About three of four times a year, I like to go off and ride some waves -- badly but enthusiastically. And surfing's attitude to newcomers is very straightforward: "You're not welcome"

In fact, surfing's attitude to everyone is straightforward: "Whoever you are, you're not welcome".

Limited natural resources, an explosion of popularity and revolutions in internet forecasting have led to an inevitable conclusion -- too many surfers are chasing too few waves. Localism -- summed up in the phrase "if you're not from here, don't surf here" -- is on the increase everywhere.

It's not new, but it's becoming more vicious. There are areas of Hawaii -- indeed entire islands of Hawaii -- which are never photographed or mentioned in the surf media; because of explicit violence and death threats against journalists and editors.

A friend of mine has made a couple of short films about surfing near his home on the west coast of Ireland. When I asked him if he was going to put them on YouTube, he patiently explained that "some of the spots are too easy to identify" -- and there would be retaliation.

This week - wind, swell and sunshine combined to give a glorious, if cold, days' surfing on the South Coast of England. I spent a couple of idyllic hours at West Wittering -- a glorious spot known for its gentle longboard waves and hassle-free crowds. I was aware, though, that there were spots an hour-or-so's drive away where my reception would have been much more hostile.

Even in laid-back Devon, there are places where visiting surfers are lucky to escape without violence in the water; and find a combination of slashed tyres, waxed windscreens and excrement in their rucksacks on returning to their vehicles.

So, in comparision, the odd miserable git who doesn't wave back is not so bad, is it?

The world's a poorer place without Sheldon Brown

I never met him, but assumed - like thousands of others - that I would like him if I ever did. 

A tireless enthusiast for fixed gears, quality engineering and the ephemera of the sport he loved, his writings inspired me countless times over the years.

There are some excellent tributes elsewhere on the web, but probably none as fitting as his own work.

Trust me on this one

In a month or two, I am leaving my employer of the last 28 years and setting off into the uncharted waters of self-employment.   I find myself spending an unhealthy amount of time thinking up bizarre business schemes which will make me the next Bill Gates.

Many of these flashes of brilliance come to me on the bike: which is either vindication of the claim that exercise clears your mind of excess distractions and allows your elemental free-thinking soul to flourish; or evidence of oxygen starvation -- which leads the brain to think that rubbish ideas are better than they are.

I had one this morning.  

A clear, cold but very windy day in the South-East -- I was just finishing a session in Richmond Park when the lightbulb came on. 

Coming off the long descent to Robin Hood Gate, I spotted a lovely old gitanes-blue Citroen 2CV a hundred yards ahead.  I put on a half-hearted sprint, caught up with it and, for the next mile or so, sat in behind.  It was bliss.  Cruising along at the legal limit, hardly turning a pedal, the spluttering, air-cooled engine of the Citroen sounding like a giant Derny.  

The driver, clearly unnerved by the gurning idiot in her rear view mirror, tried to speed up - but even I can keep up with a 2CV on the flat.  

My riding companion compared it to  having your own personal super-domestique -- like being towed along by a big, blue Sean Yates.

And that's when it struck me.  Get a couple of 2CV's, and hang round well-heeled bikie's haunts -- Richmond Park, Box Hill, Crystal Palace parade etc.  Offer, for a substantial fee, to pace groups of city boys on their training runs. 

Just think, boys, now no-one needs to take a turn on the front!  Or read a map -- just ask the driver for whatever's required -- "A hilly 65k, sir? I've got just the thing.  Tuck in behind, and follow me". 

The drivers would, of course, be competent mechanics with tools and spares in the back -- to aid the suprising number of riders you come across with £4k carbon bikes and no idea how to change a tyre.

And the deluxe version would include a video screen on the back of the car -- showing inspirational films, commercials and -- for the truly dedicated -- a Bloomberg ticker.

I'd better get started on the business plan before Rapha pinch the idea.  Dragon's Den, here I come.

 

The Bandit of the South Circular

The cycling-music interface has not always been a happy place.

True, Eric Clapton's passion for all things Italian (principally wine and supermodels) has led him to build up an impressive collection of Colnago's and a couple of Cinelli's -- but I've seen no evidence of him actually riding them.

There's a great signed picture in Condor's shop of a young Mick Jagger on one of their Mackeson team bikes but it doesn't seem to have been more than a passing Sixties' fad.

And who can forget, however hard they may try, the sight of Paul Weller struggling to maintain his normal icy cool in a wool-mix Magniflex top? Not since Bryan Ferry took to the stage dressed as an Argentine cowboy has a normally stylish man made such a fundamental error in dress sense.

Kraftwerk and the Delgados both include hard-core bikies in their line-up; disappointingly, Campag Velocet never did.

Beyond that, you're really scraping the barrel. The drummer out of Madness was in my old club in the mid-eighties -- he left after he was repeatedly dropped on the mid-week Regents Park chaingang.

And dance music has flirted sporadically with bike clothing. Early ravers briefly took to wearing lycra shorts; and team tops were popular with the late-nineties hard house crowd. Appropriate of course, since Gatecrasher kids were one of the few groups whose consumption of illegal drugs approached the levels of a professional cyclist.

But in all these discussions, one name is routinely forgotten. Step forward Billy Connolly, bearded Scottish comedian, former folk singer and bikie.

At least, I'm pretty sure he was - although I can find no record of it in any of his biographical profiles But I remember reading an interview with him in the eighties where he talked about riding when he was younger.

In particular, he wrote a song when he was a member of the Humblebums, called "The Bandit of the Great North Road".

It was a hymn of praise to those riders who prefer to train alone rather than join clubs or go out with larger groups.

Sometimes, this morning for instance, I feel a bit like that Bandit -- the only rider in Richmond Park not part of some brightly coloured peloton. I like riding in company, and do it when I can.

Equally, there are times when just wheeling along with nothing but your own thoughts is a real luxury.  This morning, icy cold but clear, felt like one of those times.