Just don't call it a fixie

A young colleague asked to interview me recently about "the fixie scene" in London. She was writing a piece for one of those style and music magazines aimed at a readership of 200 in Hoxton.

Once I'd told her never to use the word "fixie" ever again in my hearing, I agreed to the interview.

I struggled not to sound like a grumpy old man as I told her that there was no such thing as a "fixie scene" when I started riding bikes seriously. Riding fixed was just what you did in the Winter because, well, that's what everyone else did and there was a vague theory that someone in the club had once read that it improved your pedalling technique. Plus, it marked you out as someone who took their cycling a bit seriously - like shaving your legs or putting a twist in your Binda toestrap as it passed under the pedal.

I gave up riding fixed for several years because I used a mountain bike for work and a geared roadbike in the Summer. But then, sometime in the early nineties I spotted a couple of couriers on fixed, realised it could make a sensible but fun commuting bike, and dug my old track bike out of the loft.

For several years, it was a rarity to see another fixed on the road in London - probably no more than one a week. And if you came across another fixed rider you would automatically start chatting, usually comparing gear ratios and bemoaning the difficulties of getting decent and reasonably priced parts.

All that's changed now, of course, since everyone and their cousin seems to be riding fixed, or its less coherent relation - the singlespeed. And the bike shops near us had their Xmas windows stocked with racks of glittering ready-made fixed gears as ideal stocking fillers.

And I genuinely don't have a problem with that. It's much easier to get decent fixed parts like cogs and chains, and anything that gets more people out on bikes is a good thing. Plus I sold my lovely, but ancient, Condor track bike on eBay for a ludicrously inflated sum, having had serious inquiries from all over the world, including Tokyo and Milan.

And when the immediate fashion dies away, as it inevitably will, I hope that many of those attracted to bikes through the matching pastel gates of the "fixie scene" will remain committed riders.

That's what I said in the interview. Although I expect it will just end up sounding like a grumpy old man's droning.

Me again

Now, where was I? Oh yes, underneath the Eiffel Tower on the day that Michael Jackson died. For a second, as we rolled to a stop beneath one of the most famous landmarks in the world, we imagined that thousands of people carrying candles and wearing one glove had turned out to welcome us after our epic bike ride. Not so, and their off-key, multilingual renditions of "We are the World" provided a surreal backdrop to the rest of our weekend in that beautiful city.

I've been shamed into writing something by the realisation that I've got two new followers, which seems a bit odd given that there's been nothing to follow for at least six months. But welcome, both - and I'll see what I can do.

If you're unfamiliar with the blog, here's a quick recap. I started writing it because, after decades of riding, building and occasionally racing, bikes - I felt like having a new audience to drone on to. The specific impetus was a serious illness in 2007 which left me struggling to walk and unable to work for a couple of months. As part of the recuperation process, I built up a new bike - sort of occupational therapy, and began gentle riding around Richmond Park.

Within months, I hatched a ludicrous plan to ride the Paris-Roubaix sportive, which is why the blog is still called "A Year in Hell". That project was scuppered by a ski-related shoulder injury, but by then I already had plans for other ambitious rides, and was anyway busy blogging about random fashion-related issues, cycling etiquette and pro riders genitalia.

So what have I been up to since June? Working, mainly - trying to establish a new business in the face of the worst recession since the Second World War. And a bit of bike riding, when I can.

And I've bought a new bike. My trusty, much loved steel Casati has been replaced in my affections by an all-carbon Condor Baracchi, with Mavic Ksyriums and a Veloce groupset. It's gorgeous, but I can't help feeling a little sad that I've finally succumbed to the lure of the black magic.

Two things assuage my carbon guilt. First, the Casati has been passed on to my 16-year old son - who's showing a real interest in some serious riding next year. Second, the lousy weather in the UK has meant I've spent most of my time on my steel fixed Carbon Tempo, the ideal winter training iron.

So what does 2010 have in store? My son and I have committed to ride up the Tourmalet in July, the day before the pros cross it for the second time in the Tour. Ferry booked, hotel booked - all we've got to do is ride up 2-thousand metres of vicious Pyrenean col.

He needs to practice. I need to lose weight. A combination of long working hours and excessive food and drink have left me at least a stone over climbing weight. So, starting January 1st, a vicious new regime, inspired by the great Bradley. Goodbye exotic Belgian beers, chips, and bacon for breakfast. Hello abstinence.

Hope you can join me on the journey.

Londres-Paris - fin

Well.  That's that, then.  520km in three days, over some of the biggest hills in Southern England and Northern France, through torrential thunderstorms and 30-degree heat and finally an emotion-charged ride into Paris and the Eiffel Tower, roads closed, gendarmes blowing whistles and holding back traffic, motorbikes with their horns and lights blazing. A long, frequently painful, always challenging and occasionally ecstatic experience.  Three days later, random memories are probably all I can manage. 

• The sheer, grinding slog of dragging bike and body up the long final hill into Dover on Day 1  - after 170k in the saddle on a blisteringly hot day, it seemed like the final straw.  Until logistical issues delayed us getting to our French hotel until hours after our due arrival
• The remarkable restorative powers of one glass of red wine,  one hot shower and two dinners
• British motorists shouting abuse at the outrageous affront of cyclists getting in the way and delaying their progress on THEIR roads -- French motorists smiling and cheering, French people coming out of their houses to cheer the peloton on.
• The sheer exhilarating joy of flying through French towns at 40+kph in something approaching a racing peloton, with the brilliant motorbike outriders brushing your elbows as you take the bends.
• The camaraderie that shared suffering on the road quickly generates, among a group of widely differing backgrounds, skills, experience and nationalities
• The tears at the Eiffel Tower from some of our team, strong, tough blokes riding in memory of a friend lost to leukaemia
• The torrential, relentless rain that appeared seemingly from nowhere on Day 2, coating everything with a fine mixture of what the early US pros called Flemish Toothpaste - rainwater, agrochemicals and cowdung.  The wrong day to wear white shorts
• Learning a whole new language -- Australian pro.  Examples:   "Rolling" - bloody hilly.  "A bit lumpy" - really bloody hilly.  "A sporting challenge" - absolutely f****ing vertical.
• The enduring mystery of why triathletes can't hold a bloody wheel.  Don't they want to make things easier for themselves?
• The number of people who could tell you their exact wattage, power output and heart-rate but had never heard of picking  flints from their tyres after rainstorms.  So many punctures which could have been avoided. 
• 520k and not a single puncture or mechanical issue, apart from one set of knackered brake blocks.  Thank you, messrs Casati, Mavic, Campagnolo and Schwalbe.
• With ten kilometres to go, our team dropped to the back of the 300-strong peloton and tightened into a high-speed rolling pack of green jerseys. There is nothing, repeat nothing, in  cycling to match riding in tight formation with your team-mates through the traffic-free streets of Paris and seeing the Eiffel Tower loom unexectedly into view.
  
• As I swung my foot over my bike at the end of the third day, I made a solemn promise never to do anything so stupidly demanding on a bike again.  Now, I can't wait to sign up for 2010.

Londres-Paris

Two days to go before the start of the London-Paris -- only one day, really, because sign-on is tomorrow afternoon.

Now it's so close, I realise how much of an unknown quantity the next few days are going to be.   The first day is nearly 180km over 1500 metres of climbing -- further and nastier than I've ever ridden before.  And the following two days, although slightly flatter, are also 170k apiece.  

I'm hoping that the drafting of the pack and the rolling road closures will mean we can keep the optimistically high average speed targets set by the organisers.

A final e-mail from them urged everyone to get their bikes serviced before the ride -- tacit acknowledgment of how few people now service their own.   I tweaked the Casati at the weekend and, on the day after, had a traditional crisis of confidence on a 60kph descent.

"When I pulled the cable through on the front brake, did I actually screw in the holding bolt fully -- or just set it finger-tight, planning to finish it off later?"

But getting someone else to service it would only bring other worries -- "What if  that monkey in the shop didn't actually tighten the bolts when he replaced the brake blocks etc.?"

And there's a pleasure in getting your bike ready for a big event.  If it moves, grease it. If it doesn't, polish it.   Ten minutes with a cone spanner to get that final bit of play out of the rear Mavic.  And two rolls of fresh white bar tape.

Hey, we're going to Paris.  Wish us luck.

Good Day Out

I love the continuity of riding bikes -- the way that, no matter how fancy or sophisticated your equipment, you still have to use your legs to turn the wheels on the roads and the hills don't get any less steep.  

And many of the roads where you train have felt the treads of a million previous riders, especially in the South of England,  where cycle-friendly tarmac is at a premium.

120k yesterday on a route that would have been familiar to my father and his clubmates in the 1930's.  Richmond Park, Kingston, the Esher Road,  Cobham, Ockham, Leith Hill, Pitts Hill, Ranmore Common, Shere, Ewhurst, Whitedown, Abinger Hammer, Box Hill -- a roll-call of Sunday club runs, time trials and tea-stops.

And when things get really tough,  you can put aside your energy drinks, gels and recovery bars -- and just revel in a pot of English tea and a toasted teacake.

The Devil's Work

There was a point about five minutes into the Hot Chillee Devil Take the Hindmost at Donnington Park when I suddenly remembered why I hadn't actually raced a bike in nearly a quarter of a century.  It's bloody hard and unpleasant.  And frustrating.

The familiar despair settled on me when I got shot out the back of the 4th Cats after less than a lap of the 2.5 mile Grand Prix circuit and realised I was on my own.   Into a vicious headwind, with a long, merciless hill which left you knackered and boiling just before the finish line and the picnicking spectators.

The organisers had, with a rather literal turn of mind, booked an actual Beelzebub lookalike, complete with satanic girlfriend, to hop out and pull stragglers off the back of the pack but, with a cruelty worthy of Old Nick himself, they weren't actually going to start until an hour into the race so there was to be no salvation there.

I kept hoping that Julie the Commissaire might take pity and force me to retire on the grounds of being too old and fat to carry on but, cruelly, she just swept past every couple of laps -- leaning out the sunroof and cheerily shouting encouragement.

So on and on I went - on the hottest day in the UK this year, until the Devil finally wagged his fingers and allowed me to make way for the serious racers.

Why?  Because we raised some money and awareness for the Geoff Thomas Foundation -- a leukaemia charity that I passionately believe in. (If you enjoy this blog, please feel free to sponsor me on my ride to Paris by clicking here).

Because, nearly 70 years ago my father raced at Donnington Park in one of the rare pre-war massed start bike races, and it seemed a fitting way of honouring his memory.

And because I got to meet and talk to two of my all time cycling heroes - Stephen Roche and Graeme Obree, who both turned out to be as friendly, modest and charming as you could want your heroes to be.

Graeme spoke movingly and intelligently at a Question and Answer session about the sensitive subjects of depression and doping, especially when he said that drug cheats' worst crime was robbing the fans of the magic of a great performance, untainted by suspicion.

And I spent a whole warm-up lap cycling alongside, and chatting to, one of the greatest bike racers of all time -- surreally, every time I looked over , there he was - Tour De France and Giro winner, World Champion, a little larger and greyer than in his prime but still unmistakably a class act.  

For that alone, the pain was worth it.

Bambi rules

So, even in 21st Century London - deer take priority.  Hundreds of the things -- including swarms of tiny young ones -- decided to stage a mass migration in Richmond Park this afternoon, leaving motorists and cyclists no choice but to sit and relax for a bit.

All except for one nutcase driver.  Less than a minute after this photo was taken, he came up the outside of the line of cars you can see stretching off into the distance -- going at least twice the park's 20mph speed limit.  Narrowly avoiding a couple of deer, and deaf to the waving and shouting of other drivers - he swerved back on to the right side of the road and disappeared.

What possesses people to act like that?

Quotes of the week

Two that stood out this week.

The first, in a deadpan, resigned voice - came from the last rider in a group of eight or so roadies in Richmond Park midweek.

"Ok, lads.  If you haven't noticed, that is actually us being passed by a full-suspension mountain bike."

Second, from my clever and sensible 17-year-old daughter.

"Dad, when will you accept you are NOT French.  Even though you shave your legs and ride a bike, it does not make you French...."

All in the legs

To FA Headquarters last week, for the second time -- and the last, given that they're moving to new premises before next season.

The launch of the Geoff Thomas Foundation team for London to Paris, including a couple of sporting celebrities, some policemen inspired to ride by sick colleagues and, lurking somewhere at the back, me.

A great night, which I spent looking at people in a slightly bemused way, sure I recognised them but unfamiliar with seeing them without cycling kit, helmets or a distinctive bike.  The L2P "ride captains" include a number of strikingly attractive women, completely unrecognisable on the night in dresses and make-up rather than the familiar kit and wraparound shades.  But then, I completely failed to recognise the large, bald man who stood next to me for much of the evening as Magnus Backstedt, until I saw captioned pictures of him the next day.

Good conversation with an older gent whose name I don't remember. In his seventies, but still a keen rider who accompanied Geoff on a couple of stages at the end of his 2007 Tour de France attempt.  He was short and wiry and evidently extremely fit.

He reckoned he was doing about 100 miles a week in training at the moment -- but all on hills.  I said I wasn't "built" for hills, which drew a quizzical look.  Six feet tall, more than thirteen stone, I explained.

He looked at me scornfully for a few seconds before  slapping his thighs and saying "Well, it's all about the legs, really, isn't it?"

He's right of course, and on this morning's shortish training ride I determined to pass as many people as possible on the hills.  Didn't do too badly, either -- although my heart felt as though it was going to come out through my ears at one point.

White Assos shorts, incidentally, are worth at least 5 extra kph on your average speed.  The cruel insults of other riders are just jealousy.

Assos - an apology

It has been brought to my attention that some of the posts on this blog in the past two years may have been interpreted as critical of white Assos shorts and their wearers.  

The impression may have been unintentionally given that white Assos shorts were a ghastly fashion mistake comparable with comb-overs and leopardskin thong swimming costumes (on men); that white Assos shorts were worn in the main by overpaid, Johnny-come-lately city boys who'd taken up cycling as just the latest fad and had no understanding of the long, intricate and subtle history and culture of this wonderful sport.  Regrettably, on occasion, it may have been suggested that white Assos shorts were a sign of more money than sense, and less taste than either.

Year in Hell Blogging PLC would like to take this opportunity to apologise unreservedly for any such unintended implications.   It is happy to make clear that white Assos shorts are fine, stylish and comfortable garments made to the highest standards, and chosen by passionate and dedicated cyclists as an expression of their commitment to the sport and its traditions.

Since you ask, yes I have bought a pair.  They were cheap (relatively) on eBay and the box says they put 23 percent less pressure on genital areas and 18 percent more compression on the muscle zone.   I wasn't aware that I had a muscle zone, but what's not to like?

Put out more flags

I've always struggled with the idea of sporting patriotism.  I was eight years old when England last won the Football World Cup and, even though I was excited, I still didn't get why I should feel proud or inspired by the success of the eleven men on the pitch.  After all, I wasn't playing or contributing in any way, and it's an accident of birth that I happen to be English - not something that I can take any credit for.  

I still get annoyed when, as this week,  TV commentators assume that in a match between Chelsea and Barcelona, British fans will be rooting for the London team.   Thousands of "neutrals", like me, prefer a club with a long history of forward-looking, stylish play and deep roots in their community to the over-financed, arrogant plaything of a billionaire gangster.  And in a Barca/Man Utd final?  I won't be in a minority in cheering on the Catalans.

I've found it refreshing that, as a British cycling fan, the nationality of riders or teams has never been a big issue.

I loved Robert Millar's steely, obsessiveness and his superb style as a climber, but the fact that he was Scottish was largely irrelevant.   He was, anyway, more continental than most other members of the peloton and his rejection of so much that was parochial and small about British cycling was a key part of his personality. 

My other favourite riders and teams -- Bernard Hinault, Mario Cipollini,  Jens Voigt, Carlos Sastre -- have rarely been British.  You only have to read Tim Moore's brilliant comparison of photographs of Hinault and Boardman to understand why the Englishman is admired but never attracted a passionate following.

I enjoyed the success of the British track team but mainly because I admired them as athletes, their dedication and attitude, and the way that the team management brought focus and professionalism where none had existed before.

But now we have something different -- world class British road riders (Cavendish) and soon teams (Sky) -- that leave little excuse for not being patriotic in your support.

I'm going to enjoy this Giro, as one of the last where I can, conscience-free, support teams and riders of any nationality.

Crashing

Slightly subdued today, partly because of a late night as "plus one" to my high-flying executive wife, partly because I've seen two nasty bike accidents close-up in the past few days.

The first was on the gravel pedestrian/bike path which runs around Richmond Park.  

I'm not a huge fan or user of bike paths -- I prefer to take my chances on the road most of the time, but I have noticed a strange phenomenon.  Too many cyclists seem bemused as to which side of the path they should ride on.   In my simple way, I always assume that I should be riding on the left, like on the road (international readers may care to reverse this), and if people coming in the other direction do the same, we'll all be happy and safe.  But more than half of the cyclists I meet on my occasional bike-path forays seem to prefer the right hand side and refuse to move from their chosen line.

That's what happened the other day in the Park;  although I, thankfully, was on the adjoining stretch of road.  Two cyclists approaching each other at speed -- one on the left hand side, the other on the right.  One headed further left to avoid a collision, the other... headed right, and they smashed head on.  When I arrived, they were still in a dazed, dusty and slightly bloody heap.  One of the riders, an old fellow who turned out to be 77, had come off worse -- but mainly superficial.  The other, a young guy who appeared to speak very little English -- was just shaken up.   I dished out anti-septic wipes from my saddle-pack and listened while the older rider, who was on a mountain bike but dressed in full roadie kit, bemoaned the fact that no-one seemed to ride on the left any more.

The second, potentially more serious, came on a club run at the weekend.  Beautiful weather, riding with a slower group than usual.  It was also less experienced, and a bit twitchy on the brakes -- and the roads seemed busier and faster than normal.  I'd already been roundly (and rightly) told off for a bit of dangerous overtaking by one of the "ride captains", a fearsomely fast former Olympic track rider.  I was coasting at the back when some of the younger riders decided to sprint off the front.  Bad move.  One of the hundreds of potholes we'd passed that day (will the local authorities ever get round to fixing them?) connected with a carbon front wheel and the rider went cartwheeling off on a busy road, narrowly missing an oncoming, speeding car.

Again, not as bad as it could have been -- shock, and a badly gashed arm -- but a reminder of quite how difficult it can be to ride in a big group on Southern Britain's packed roads.

Not a bad ride, though, at a reasonable pace -- although my Cateye claimed afterwards that my maximum speed was nearly 78kph. Unlikely, unless someone had stolen my bike and dropped it off a cliff.

Sacre bleu

We're none of us as young as we used to be, but I was horrified to catch this news report on French TV, courtesy of Big Tex's Twitter.  Towards the end, a bald fat man appears -- looking for all the world like the missing third Mitchell brother.

Turns out to be suave, sophisticated two-time Tour winner Laurent Fignon, the only man in the 20th century to make a ponytail look stylish.

The film itself appears to be a reasonably balanced account of Armstrong's latest travails with the French authorities, but it's overshadowed by the shock of seeing the Professeur in such an advanced state of old codgerdom.

Onwards and Upwards

The reappearance of an unfamiliar yellow orb in the London sky coincided with a chest infection of particular unpleasantness.  Up all night coughing, and the return -- after 15 years -- of my asthma.  So that was nice.

Supposed to be doing a 100-mile sportive today, but gave it a miss -- managed a brisk 50k in the sun and wind instead, and already feeling better.

100k in the Surrey Hills next Sunday, better get the legs warmed up before then.

Look...just stop raining, will you?

I'm sure the Scots have a word for the weather that has brought misery to London over this Easter weekend.  On the principle that the Eskimos have 500 words for snow*,  and the Bedouin a thousand for sand, I'm sure there must be an appropriate Scottish description for the constant, damp dispiriting drizzle that has soaked into clothes and spirits without even the relief of an occasional downpour to liven things up.

Seven o'clock this morning, rolling out of South London for yet another session in spray and muck.

When will cycling get fun again?

*Apparently they don't. It's a myth - they just say "Bloody snow again..." and get on with it.

The Great British Bank Holiday

The Good Friday meeting at Herne Hill is more than a bike race, it's a gathering of the clans.  My father raced there before the war, I raced there in the eighties -- I dragged my son along as soon as he could see over the perimeter fence.

There's something reassuringly traditional about the day -- the same faces, the same stalls, the same comissaires (I'm sure one or two of them rang a bell at my Dad and they were probably getting on a bit even then).

And the same mad optimism that leads British families to sit out gales and hailstones on Bank Holiday beaches around the country in the belief that "it'll clear up in a minute", also pervades SE24.

The forecast was for thunderous showers.  The skies were lead grey and it had been raining for most of the morning, but still a good crowd turned up to watch the top quality international field.  They stayed despite the disruption caused by the frequent soakings, and the clear fact that the weather was only going to get worse.

The pilots of the mighty Thunderbird motorpace bikes huddled disconsolately -- in their back-to-front leathers and ridiculous helmets -- sheltering from the rain in the shipping containers in the car-park, and one of them even tried a few tentative laps, supposedly to help dry the track but really just to keep the crowd amused.

I bumped into an old racing colleague who said the banking was like an ice-rink - he'd eased off coming off a turn and his back wheel had locked solid. 

Eventually, even the most optimistic of us agreed to call it a day.  As always, I went home with a motley collection of unnecessary cycling accessories -- yet another Campagnolo cap, five Continental innertubes and a set of MKS rat-traps for my son's fixed.

We'll be back next year. Pray for sun.

Credit Crunch Chuff Soother

I'm a big fan of Assos and their high quality, if expensive, products.  Over time, I'm sure the extra comfort and longevity outweighs the initial pain in the bank account.

But at a tenner a jar, their hi-tech bum butter -- aka Assos Chamois Cream, is another matter.  

I think I may have found the perfect credit crunch solution, at least for British bikers.  I've experimented with Sudocreme nappy rash before, but its waterproof gunky-ness makes too much of a mess downstairs.

Step forward Waitrose Baby Bottom Butter -- an appealing blend of olive oil, camomile and vanilla that sounds like it should be on the menu at Heston Blumenthal's rather than stuffed down your shorts.

But at 2-pounds-50 a jar, it's worth a go.  Initial trials suggest it lacks the mentholated zing of Assos chamois creme -- not always what you want in the bibshort department anyway -- but seems pleasantly soothing and lubricating. Ahem.

If you're concerned by the notion of rubbing baby products into your sitting area, I can report that the label is easily detached.  You can then claim that your plain pot contains a secret mixture exclusively made up for you by Erik Zabel's Six-Day soigneur. I won't tell.

This is the Post-Modern World

Riding through the city the other night, on my way to the launch party for the Ride Journal Issue 2, which I thoroughly recommend you buy -- and not just because it's got an article by me in it.

I came to a stop at a set of traffic lights in Stockwell, not always the friendliest part of town -- and a very large BMW rolled alongside.   The darkened window slid down and the driver, a middle-aged black man so large that he filled much of the passenger seat as well as his own, spoke:

"I love those sneakers, where d'you get them?"

"eBay -- they're pretty old, probably late eighties..."

"They're really cool, never seen anything like them -- what make are they?"

"Sidi, it's an Italian brand -- mainly cycling shoes.."

"Damn they're smart -- you a designer or something?"

"No, I just liked the colours"

"Well, congratulations, you're the first post-modern cyclist I've ever met"

And with that, the lights changed and he drove away.

Another reason to stop at red, you have the most intriguing conversations.

Squeak, squeak

My legs are out. It must be Spring.  

And a nasty, pale-looking pair they are too,  hiding from the elements all winter.  Nothing that a drop of St Tropez won't cure.

The evenings are getting longer as well.

My Condor's developed a squeak.  One of those annoying, elusive squeaks that sound as though they're coming from somewhere around the bottom bracket.  Which probably means they're actually in the headset. Or the rear hub.  Or your ankles.

I've had two steel frames crack on me, so I take squeaks seriously.

I've eliminated the seat post, the cranks and the pedal-cleat interface.  I've also eliminated the wheels, because I've changed them.  And in the process, discovered an extraordinary piece of cackhandedness by an anonymous Condor mechanic.

I normally build up my own bikes, or slowly replace every bit on them anyway so, like Trigger's broom, they're a different bike.

But the Tempo is pretty much as it left Condor's, except for new Mavic Pro's, and rectifying a bizarre build oddity.  Condor use horizontal forward-facing dropouts on the Tempo frames, because "it's hard to change wheels with mudguards and track dropouts". It's not, but we'll let that pass.

The mechanic who assembled my bike had secured the mudguards to the bottom seat stay bridge with a 1.5 cm bolt, in a chrome sheath (actually a campag seat pin bolt).  And in the process made it literally impossible to get the wheel out.  The wheel could not go forward more than three-quarters of the way along the dropout, even with the tyre completely deflated.

It took me a while to work out how he'd done it.  But clearly, he'd put the wheel, with the tyre deflated, as far back in the dropout as possible before installing the mudguard, inflating the tyre, moving the wheel forward to within a milimetre of the bolt and sniggering at the thought of what would happen in the event of a puncture.

Eventually, I managed to extricate the wheel, but only after loosening the retaining bolt with a round- headed Bondhus Allen key at an extreme angle, and removing the entire mudguard.

The guard is now reattached with a straightforward water bottle boss bolt, and wheel removal is more straightforward.  Top marks for the Condor mechanic and his evil plan.

STOP PRESS:  The squeak stopped when I took my overshoes off. Is this significant?

Training hard

46x19, mudguards and the Assos winter jacket. Whatever happened to Spring?  Realising too late that I need to do some proper training if I'm going to ride London-Paris for the Geoff Thomas Foundation  

As the picture shows, training has begun in earnest.

Twitter ye not...

Twitter's a great resource.  Not only does it allow you to disseminate your half-formed thoughts to the entire world at the press of a button, it gives you previously unimagined insight into the lives of the famous.

A little too much insight in some cases.  Like today:

"lancearmstrong: Good morning. A little stiff getting out of bed today..."

Whoa, steady Tex -- more detail than absolutely necessary, thanks.  Anyway -- despite all those jokes from the rest of the peloton about bus passes and Trek making carbon Zimmers -- you're still a young man.  Wait a few years, then you'll be glad of a little stiffness, any time of day.

Speaking of which, my wife made me go running this morning.  Something to do with Mother's Day, apparently, meant that instead of enjoying myself on my bike, I was required to put my trainers on and join her jogging around the Common.

I hate running.  With a vengeance.  Even when I ran the London Marathon a few years ago, I made it very clear to anyone who would listen that I wasn't a runner.  I was a cyclist who happened to have entered the London Marathon.  Runners are skinny, competitive and obsessed with times. Cyclists are....well, you get my point.

And now I hurt.  Muscles that haven't been used for ages are complaining and, like Lance, I think I'm going to be stiff in the morning.  And not in a good way.

 

Weird

This week's Comic has the air of the surreal about it.  It's two weeks too early for April Fool, so I can only assume that the staff of Cycling Weekly hit the laughing water a bit too enthusiastically on St Patrick's Day and we're all paying the price.

How else to explain the three most bizarre stories in there?

First, Cabinet Minister Tessa Jowell is pictured with the frozen grin and locked straight arms of the track novice, riding round Herne Hill, clinging to the blue line as if her life depended on it.  The future of London's only velodrome is once again in the balance, despite the imminent arrival of the Olympics and the huge success of Britain's track teams.

Second, an anonymous skater in a gorilla mask (don't ask) has been launching random attacks on cyclists in the capital.

And third, Mark Cavendish suffered mechanical catastrophe in Tirreno-Adriatico when his chain jammed into his Dura-Ace rear mech -- because of a fundamental design flaw.  The spacer is apparently only attached to the cage on one side. This makes it easier to change the mech, but also easy for the chain to jump off the cage.  Columbia mechanics have effected a temporary solution on all the team's bikes.

So let's get this clear.   You pay £165 for a Dura-Ace mech, £800 if you want all the bits to match -- and you still have to zip tie the cage together to stop the chain flying off?

I'm glad I ride Campag.

Advice Corner

This blog takes its responsibilities seriously and likes to think it can offer advice to those in need, in a caring and supportive way.  

So.  To the large gentleman on a Specialized who followed me along the South Circular this morning.  If you are going to wear the full,  blue-and-orange argyll Slipstream Chipotle kit, you might want to think about your decision to accessorise it with hairy legs and calf-length maroon wool socks. 

And don't go through red lights either.  It makes you look like a cock.  Thank you. 

Make it stop

Shortly after this photo was taken yesterday, my thighs decided that they did not wish to co-operate with the rest of my body. That is the smile of a desperate man, who has just spotted that the road is about to get even steeper and goes on for longer than he thought.

And I urgently need to redesign the club kit.  White does nothing for the rider with a fuller figure.

Photo by Phil O'Connor. Yes, that Phil O'Connor.   

The joys of Spring

Who knew you could get cramp in your thighs?  Even when I was training to run a marathon, such horrors were unheard of.  Calves, yes - feet, frequently, but your whole, huge, thigh muscle? Too nasty to contemplate.

But that's what happened to me early this afternoon after around 90 rolling kilometres in the Surrey countryside.  I was nearing the end of the SWRC Spring Sportive, a 100 km ride which mixes a few choice climbs (Leith Hill, Combe Bottom) with sections of rolling downland where high average speeds can be maintained.

As is often the case with long rides, I found the first half seemed to drag on for ages - and the last few k's flew by.  We were helped around the 70k mark by latching on the back of a reasonable-paced group of triathletes, breaking a fundamental rule of the Euro Cyclist, but easing the burden considerably.  Can I send belated thanks to the young woman from the Kingfisher club -- you were an excellent bottom, er...wheel, to follow.

I think it was the final, vicious left hand hairpin of Combe Bottom that did for my thighs.  If it hadn't been for the official photographer parked on the apex, I might have eased off or even put a foot down but, desperate to look good in the photos, I gave it a final burst of the Pantani's and danced around the gradient.

Two k later, when I got out of the saddle briefly to cross a bridge, my thighs gave up.  A nasty business, involving a considerable amount of bad language, but I struggled on.

Beautiful blue skies, mild temperatures during the ride.  Half an hour after we finished, the heavens opened in a storm of sleet and high winds.

God is a roadie.

Euro trash

As I drag myself, pixel by pixel, into the 21st Century I am increasingly interfacing with what I understand are known as social media.  Not content with this blog, my random thinking can now be found on Twitter and Facebook.

On the latter, I've joined a charming group known as "The Official Rules of the Euro Cyclist", an extensive but eccentric collection which seems to comprise mainly US and Canadian students, a little starstruck by the supposed superiority of the continental pro.

There is a long list of approved (mainly Italian) products and an equal list of banned (mainly US or Far Eastern) equipment.

The "rules" currently number 62, and include such gems as "a gold pendant on a very long chain bearing some form of religious icon is strongly recommended for mountain races" and "ridiculously stylish eyewear is to be worn AT ALL TIMES without exception."   My favourite is the explicit ban on any association with triathletes.

Mario Cipollini is, of course, the undisputed idol of the members.

All well and good, and harmless -- a continuation of the obsessions so brilliantly caricatured in Breaking Away, and which we've all been guilty of at some time.

I used to ride with a club with a strong Italian element to the membership, and for a long time I was in awe of their stylishness. One character -- who would have been rejected as too cliched a stereotype by the casting director of Carry On Up The Dolomites -- used to sing snatches of opera as he rode along on his immaculate Bianchi, and - in the days of toeclips and leather straps - would lean on the drivers' windows of cars at traffic lights, invariably with attractive women at the wheel.

One question has been puzzling the members of the group, though -- and I feel I may be able to help.  

The challenge?  Are fixies Euro?  Leaving aside the abomination of the word "fixie", I think it goes to the heart of the misunderstandings that plague the group.

There are two clear traditions in "Euro" cycling.  The first, epitomised by Snr Cipollini, is Italian -- and to a lesser extent, French -- based.  Stylish, glamorous, obsessed by form over content and with an indefinable charm. Think Fausto Coppi or a gleaming Colnago.

The second, and equally valid, is the tradition of the flatlanders -- the Belgian, Dutch and Northern French farm-hands with their grim, wind-blasted work ethic and dour acceptance of pain and hardship.  Think Roger De Vlaeminck or Freddy Maertens. 

Sorry to disappoint my new found US and Canadian friends, but Euro-cycling isn't all espressos, white shoes and tan-lines.  

It's mud and wind and cowshit, and fixed-gear winterbikes with full mudguards (fenders).

Speaking of which, 100k through the Surrey hills on Sunday.  I don't expect to see Mario there. 

Coolest ever?

Nice interview with Andy Hampsten over on Belgium Knee Warmers.  And the photo got me thinking.  Was the La Vie Claire-Wonder kit the coolest in cycling history?  The latest Rouleur includes the second part of their iconic jersey article but the Mondrian-inspired beauty doesn't get a mention.  Surely wrong.

And those Oakley Factory Pilot Eyeshades (I had an identical blue pair) are the coolest bike glasses ever, bar none.  So that's that sorted.

Sunday Run

Bike cleaned and gears tweaked? Check.  Legs shaved and summer kit on?  Check.  Sun out, no wind? Check.  50k in 2 hours.  You don't get big legs watching telly.  Sometimes cycling helps to keep things simple.

Close shaves

Same dilemma, different year. There's always a day when the sun comes out and the temperature rises unexpectedly, and the thoughts of young, and old, cyclists turn to -- shorts. Yep, it's time to expose the legs again -- in the miniscule window between freezing winter and damp summer. But that means getting the razor out. And can I really be bothered to shave my legs this early in the season? Decisions, decisions. And it'll be snowing again by Sunday.

Back to the future

Great morning with my future London to Paris ridemates - 80km at a steady pace around the Surrey Hills.

Although the L2P has a 21st Century sportive air about it, the ride was like a time-machine back 20 years to the last time I went on a proper, old-school club run.

The same language ("Car up!" "Car back!" "Squeeze in!"), the same steady warm-up before the mad dash for home, and the same characters -- it's as though central casting decree that every group of Sunday morning roadies must have, in no particular order: the bunch engine; the joker; the nutcase who wants to drop the hammer before you even leave the car park; the equipment bore; the bloke who goes on and on about heart rate and lactate thresholds and then gets dropped on the first hill; the old bloke who sits in and never does a turn on the front (err...that was me actually); the fat one who goes surprisingly fast and the eejit who couldn't hold a line if his life depended on it, which come to think of it, it does.

Around 60k, I developed what a young lady in the group referred to as "exercise-induced Tourette's" -- swearing liberally every time the road went upwards.

Our club runs used to finish at a greasy spoon in Wembley, today we all gathered for top class coffee and fiendishly expensive pastries at Carluccio's. 

My amazing technicolour Sidi's were much admired -- one woman even asked if I'd had them specially made -- and I learned a few things along the way.  Most important, I can still hold a wheel, I'm not as slow up hills as I thought I was, but I need to practice my descending as a matter of urgency.

Roll with it

I should have known I was in for a rough time when the man in the local bike shop smiled in a slightly sinister way.

"What have you got on that, anyway?"

"66 inches"

"You should be fine -- there's nothing really nasty, it's more...rolling"

As Jim Royle would say - "Rolling my Assos".

In Yorkshire for the week, at the old family home of Mrs Flandrian.  I'd taken the Tempo up, hoping for at least one run out in the countryside. 

Mrs F was pretty clueless about good cycling routes, so I turned to the man in the LBS -- a nice place, with the traditional mix of shoppers, cheap mtb's, kids' bikes and a couple of decent race frames.

He advised me to head for the Howardian Hills, a tourist-board-invented description of the countryside north of York.

Thick fog greeted me as I rolled out of the drive and headed north -- wet enough to make my jersey uncomfortably damp, but not enough to make it worth putting a rain jacket on until it was too late.

The fog and rain combined with the agricultural run-off from the fields to make it a pretty grim few hours, but oddly enjoyable in a Lance-Armstrong-I'll-be-grateful-for-this-when-summer-comes way.

But some of those Howardian Hills are surprisingly steep and long, and my lack of preparedness was sadly exposed.

80k tomorrow with the London to Paris team, at what they call a "gentle winter pace". We'll see.

Crunch time

Horrible realisation  that there's only about sixteen weekends left before I ride from London to Paris in aid of the Geoff Thomas Foundation.  I'd better start some serious training instead of faffing about in cafes drinking espresso and eating cake.  Robert Millar used to say the two most important elements of training were rest and proper food -- I'm good at those bits, it's the turning pedals round I struggle with.

Freezing cold this morning, hoar frost across the grass and patches of ice on the roads.   At least the fixed keeps you warm after the initial shock of the cold air.  I'm getting used to the 66 inches now -- it's not as easy up hills as I'd hoped, nor as spin-crazy down hill as I'd feared, but it definitely feels looser and smoother than the old 68. 

I've abandoned the idea of riding London to Paris on fixed, in my present level of fatnesss it would be a step too far.  Hope to get the new Schwalbe's on the road bike for the first of the London to Paris Sunday training rides next week -- when my true state of unreadiness may be revealed.

Tale of two companies

As crunch turns to recession and then to depression, brand loyalty and customer service become even more important. 

For some companies at least. Contrast my two experiences over the past few days.

I need a laptop projector for my work.  After a few hours online research, I settled on a lightweight Dell, and ordered it from the company website on Saturday afternoon.  Oddly, I heard nothing more -- no acknowledgement of the order, zip.  On Monday, I came out of a meeting to find three missed calls on my mobile phone from an unknown number, and an e-mail from Dell saying they couldn't process my order because they couldn't get in touch with me to verify some details.  So I phoned their call centre and spent  20 minutes trying to convince their operator that I was who I said I was.  Their software still had me listed at my old address (I moved a year ago), and my website was also apparently registered to a US address  (It's not, they were looking at the same company name but .com not co.uk).   Eventually, they accepted that I wasn't an impostor, and agreed to progress the order.  Except they didn't.  Their site still listed my order as cancelled and no new order number was forthcoming. And neither did they give me any explanation.  And  their phone number was never answered. When I sent an inquiring e-mail,  I was told that the only person who could deal with my problem worked from 0400-1300 GMT for "business reasons".

On Sunday, I ordered three undervests from Prendas -- two for my son, one for me.  I got an e-mail thanking me for my order and another, later, saying it had been posted.  Tuesday morning, the vests arrived, with a handwritten note on a postcard inside the package.

So -- one of the companies, I cancelled the order and will never, ever use them again. The other company -- I've already ordered something else from their website. Guess which one's which?

Stir Crazy

Sometimes things just don't work out.  Last week, I finally took delivery of my gorgeous new, blue, retrosexual Condor.

Regular readers ("Hello" both of you and "Moshi, Moshi" to my many Japanese followers) will remember that my original fixed Tempo developed a nasty crack in the seat tube -- the result of a manufacturing fault which affected a whole batch of Condor's steel offerings.  To their credit, Condor lent me a spare frame while a permanent replacement was on order.  

This took a while. I like to think that it was because the frame was lovingly handbuilt by an eighty-year old Italian craftsman with a blowtorch and a stick of silver, who did a couple of welds each morning before heading home to spend the rest of the day eating lunch, drinking grappa and chasing the local girls around his kitchen.  I suspect it may be just inefficiency.

But when it arrived last week, all niggles were forgotten.  This year's Tempo's come in a glorious deep metallic blue, with a timeless old-school livery which wouldn't  look out of place at the head of a fifties club run. 

The arrival of this stunning piece of retro-loveliness, however, coincided with a ridiculously busy period of work and the biggest snowfalls in London for nearly 20 years.  So the Condor has sat in my basement workshop glaring balefully at my increasingly fat, unexercised frame.

Most of the snow's now gone -- and I'm hoping that tomorrow morning may bring a chance to ride it in anger. And get some of this flab off.

All good

Beautiful weather in London today, cold but bright -- the perfect antidote to too much time spent hunched working over a computer or stuck in an overcrowded tube train.  Only managed a quick one but it was enough to restore my faith -- en route I had a quick chat with an amiable old codger on a Pinarello, one of those familiar cyclists' conversations that begins with no introduction, continues with complete mutual understanding on subjects of no interest to non-cyclists and ends when one person (in this case the codger), decides to pedal on at a different pace.   And a blonde in a BMW Z3 smiled at me. Back to work in a much better frame of mind.

The right tool

The fixed experiment is going well, although hampered today by filthy wet weather.  Finally freed the lockring off my track wheel, with the help of the latest addition to my tool collection -- a rather fine one-eighth inch Shimano combined lockring remover and chainwhip.  Difficult to find (I got mine from Parkers) but worth it.  

The shoes that taste forgot

I was converted to clipless pedals the moment I saw Big Bernard wearing them in the mid-eighties.  I loved the secure-sounding click of the early Look system, though I was less fond of the peculiar Penguin-walk and continual plastic cleat replacement which went with it.

For a while, I converted to metal-SPD's and double-sided pedals for commuting and Look for racing and weekend riding, until the annoyance of two systems became too much and I binned the Look's for good.

Imagine my annoyance, then, when I discovered that Shimano had decided to replace the trusty old SPD with a new Look-style affair (I know this happened a while ago, but I wasn't paying attention, and I think I missed the memo), rebranding the originals as for mountain bike use only.  Which meant that I couldn't buy new road shoes with SPD fittings.  It's hard  enough buying decent shoes for my (size 13 US) feet, but this was an added blow.

Which is why, after a prolonged hunt on e-Bay, I have taken delivery of the most extraordinary pieces of footwear I have ever seen.  Brand new Sidi racing shoes, complete with all original fittings and packaging, for a ridiculously bargain price.

They date from, I would guess, the early nineties and their colour scheme is beyond description.   The attached photo does not do justice to its true fluorescent and pastel horrors.

But I don't care, and when the weather improves I shall wear them with pride.  My fashion sources (teenage daughters) tell me that the whole nineties' fluoro thing is big this year (see Assos's limited edition jerseys) and I will be briefly at the cutting edge of bike couture.

I think I may take up golf...

I love working on bikes, I really do. Most of the time. 

I do all my own maintenance and have built almost all my road bikes for the past 20 years.  Visitors to our house are astonished by my workshop, which displays a neatness and order absent from the rest of my life.

My passion for collecting rare vinyl is probably matched in expense and obsessiveness only by my desire to own every tool Campagnolo have ever made. 

I love the satisfaction of diagnosing a problem, even better foreseeing one,  and fixing it; the satisfaction and confidence of knowing that my bike is working well and that, if for any reason it were to go wrong, I could probably sort it out.

So last night should have been simple.  I needed to change the 48T chainring on the Condor for a 46T, and, while I was at it, put on a new KMC chain and a new 19 tooth sprocket (the last not strictly necessary, but it's a lovely CNC-machined one and it looked so right on the shelf at Condor).

Even with a  break for a cup of tea, it shouldn't have been more than an hour's work -- cleared up and washed just in time to check whether the new female lead in Hustle is as hot as Jaime Murray.

Two hours later, I am still staring angrily at a seized chainring bolt.  Its four colleagues are happily on the shelf, waiting to be refitted, but this one is refusing to co-operate.  I have tried every combination of allen key, screwdriver and that little Campag tool with two prongs that looks like a fondue fork.  Nothing.  I have bathed it in release fluid and WD40 and that has only made things worse. 

After briefly considering applying a blowtorch to warm it up (rejected as unlikely to be beneficial to the alloy chainring or the frame which, technically, doesn't even belong to me): I reach for the drill.  Not something I regularly use in bike maintenance, but the only thing I can think of that might work.  Twenty minutes later (the bloody thing was just revolving in its own bath of lubricant), I manage to remove the now mangled bolt and throw it in the bin. 

New ring goes on fine, although all my spare bolts are annoyingly just the wrong size, so I have to bodge a replacement.

 Just a matter now of whipping off the old cog and sticking the new one on.  Could I shift the lockring?  I suspect you know the answer to that.   Seized solid and no amount of pressure from a lockring spanner or a mallet/screwdriver combination would budge it an inch.  I tried tightening the cog fractionally, in the hope of freeing up the lockring (they have opposing threads) but that resulted in a broken Park Tool chainwhip (I thought they were indestructible) and skinned knuckles. 

Gone midnight now (teenage son's verdict on the new Hustle star incidentally, "er....she's OK"), and I'm beginning to lose hope.  Desperate times, desperate decisions - so I decide to abandon the old wheels and leave whichever over-strong ape at Condor put the lockring on to take it off again, and put the new cog on my spare track racing wheels.

Given that I'm unlikely to be taking to the track again in the near future, it's probably time that these (36 spoke Mavic Open Pro) were given a workout.  Lockring and cog come off straight away, new one goes on a treat, road tyres swopped for track tyres with relatively little difficulty.

But I'm still left with a workshop floor covered in oil spots and discarded tools, and fingers covered in cuts, blood and the sort of ground-in grease that won't come off my hands for days and days, and will raise a few eyebrows when I'm wearing a suit and tie for work next week.

And all so that I can drop my fixed gearing down from 69 to 66.  Can three inches make that much difference?  Please insert your own smutty joke here, I'm too knackered.

 

The fixed experiment starts here...

I've been riding fixed on the road for more than twenty years now; mainly for London commuting, saving my geared bikes for weekend jaunts, sportives and -- in the increasingly dim past -- racing.

And it's always been on 48x19 - otherwise known as 68 inches.  At least, according to my bible in the early years - Richard's Bicycle Book.  Other authorities (e.g the late Sheldon Brown) rate it lower (around 66) once you take account of 700c tyres.  

There was no particular science behind choosing that ratio -- when I built my first fixed, a mechanic clubmate recommended 48x19 as being best for my purposes and I've stuck with it.  He was right.  For a London commute over a relatively flat route, 48x19 ticked all the boxes.  Fast enough to keep up with traffic, but not so high that you needed Chris Hoy's legs to get it rolling away from the lights.   

But I gave up my "proper" job last year and now work from home and from a variety of digital boltholes -- so no need to commute.  

My fixed is now used for training around Richmond Park and the Surrey Hills, and I'm thinking of doing some sportives on it this year.  I even have a hare-brained notion of riding London to Paris in June without the benefit of gears, although I suspect I may come to my senses on that one.

So, after two decades, a lower gear is probably called for.  

On the plus side, a lower ratio should make it easier to get up some of my steeper training hills and encourage a more fluid, spinning pedal style.

On the minus side, my overall speed will probably be even slower and my legs may well unscrew from my hip-joints on long downhills.

Nothing ventured, however -- so I've taken delivery of a 46 tooth chainring and a shiny new KMS chain.  That should give me 66 inches in pre-decimal terms (65.4 to be precise).

I'll try it out later this week and report back.  All advice gratefully received, this is new territory for me.

What happened to global warming?

I know there are parts of the world where the current round of weather we're experiencing in Southern England would be regarded as a mild Spring day. And they still ride bikes.  Richard Lee writes from Vancouver to say that, because of heavy snowfalls, it'll be a while before he gets out on two wheels again.  But I'm a soft Londoner, and I'm getting fed up with dressing like Captain Scott just to go for a spin.

This morning:

Helly Hansen glove liners

Gore winter gauntlets

Falke thermal t-shirt

Patagonia capilene polo neck

Assos 851 Jersey

Pearl Izumi bib longs

Endura tights

Smartwool walking socks

Prendas Meraklon Oversocks

Buff scarf

Rapha Winter Hat

And I still froze.  Not as badly as my next door neighbour, who's recently taken up riding a carbon Bianchi, but hasn't yet got the hang of dressing for Winter.  Breathtaking to watch the sun rise over the white, frozen park, though.

And on our way back, we passed two riders heading out of town -- lightweight jerseys, baggy cotton shorts and no gloves.  The spirit of Captain Oates is clearly not dead.

Brass Monkeys

As far as I'm concerned there are only a few definite rules in cycling.

Don't wear black socks is obviously one -- even if you have won the Tour seven times.

Always check who's behind you before clearing your nose over your shoulder -- that's another.

And don't wear jerseys you're not entitled to.  (A few points here.  The wearing of kit from long-disbanded or willfully obscure pro teams is just about OK.  Especially if the kit was very cheap.  And if you're really, really fat -- then the wearing of a red-and-white polka dot jersey in an ironic way is also OK, as long as you accept that it's the two-wheeled equivalent of wearing a tie designed to look like a piano keyboard and you will never get laid.  Oh, and be careful if you bring this rule to other people's attention. I only narrowly avoided disaster and embarrassment at Herne Hill a few years ago when I spent a pleasant half-hour warming up with an old fella in a rainbow jersey.  I was within a syllable of teasing him about his stylistic faux-pas when another rider joined us and congratulated him on his recent World Championship victory (Masters, on the track, but still.....)  

Anyway. A new rule occurred today.  When all the water in your bidon freezes solid, it's probably time to head home. I ignored it, and only now, hours later, are my toes on speaking terms with the rest of my body.  I've never been a big fan of overshoes, but they suddenly make a lot of sense.

Happy New Year

Alarm goes off at 0630.  Tea, porridge and out the door by 0700.  Still dark, thick ice on car roofs and windscreens.  Fingers and feet start to suffer as soon as I hit the end of the street. 

Just a quick one today, first of the year, spinning the fixed for twenty or so miles with a couple of hills on the way. 

Back in time to grab the paper from the doormat, make another cup of tea and head back to bed before Mrs Flandrian and the rest of the family have even opened their eyes.

Sometimes, riding a bike can seem like a chore, another thing to fit in to a frantic schedule.  And sometimes, like today, it can help you feel like the luckiest person in the world.