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.