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.