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.