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.