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.