Whiter Shade

Sometimes, when I'm out riding and should be thinking hard about serious work or domestic-related matters, I find my mind wandering to the more esoteric reaches of bike culture semiotics.

Today was a case in point. What, I wondered, lies behind the increasing and mysterious popularity of white Assos kit? 

Not as trivial a subject as you might think. Our choice of clothing, how we present ourselves to others, is never insignificant.

Before the Industrial Revolution, pale skin was a clear indicator of wealth or breeding. Relatively simple to decode, white hands and face said:

"I do not have to toil all day in fields under a boiling sun, or stoke fires in someone else's house."    Fine clothes in delicate fabrics reinforced the message, but a milk-like complexion was the real giveaway.

Things changed of course, first with the arrival of factories and offices which took many of the working classes inside to labour; and later when the rich discovered summers on the Cote D'Azur and private yachts.  A perfect tan announced that its owner was a person of leisure, an international jet-setter.

Package tours and St Tropez spray booths have disrupted that particular piece of symbolism, but the underlying principles still apply.

When I started cycling, shorts were black.  The occasional coloured side-panel was tolerated but anything more guaranteed you the role of club laughing stock.  I once turned up to a Sunday run wearing red Giordana tights (our jerseys were red and white) and the cruel Rudolf Nureyev jibes and Santa jokes continued for months. 

The drawbacks of white -- or very pale -- cycling clothes are well known: they make you look fat and emphasise your privates.  

Plus, on the simplest level -- you need somewhere to wipe your hands.  When your chain comes off or you need to change a tyre,  a pair of black shorts are very effective hand cleaners.

So the not-so hidden message of white Assos (and its marginally cheaper cousin white Castelli)?  

"My bike is very expensive and very new.  In the unlikely event of anything going wrong, I shall simply call a man to fix it.  I have no intention of riding in the rain or getting a puncture.  And anyway,  I can afford to buy lots more new shorts at £90 a pop if these ones get dirty."

So now you know.  Glad to be of service.