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.