A Year in Hell

Look at the size of that bloody hill!

2010-05-24T20:21:00.004+01:00

Five posts in a year. I think we can all agree that's a bit crap. Sorry, what can I say?

Once again, I blame the pressures of starting a business in the middle of the worst recession since the 1940's (we're doing very well, thanks for asking), raising a large family and just general - stuff. Plus, by the time I've spent all day updating Twitter, Facebook and the company blog, there's surprisingly little room left for making snarky comments about pro riders' shorts.

And everyone's at it now. Cycling, I mean. When I started, cyclists were the two wheeled equivalent of plane-spotters and traction engine enthusiasts - not positively harmful but to be viewed with healthy suspicion. Last weekend, I took my youngest to cricket practice and all the Dads were huddled together discussing the relative merits of Ultegra and Chorus. One of them has even started a new bike-related brand as a....no, I'd better not go there, he may be reading this.

And not just one, but two, cycling related cafes have opened within half-a-mile of our office. The Rapha Cafe is evil. It tempts me away from work with decent coffee and big screen bike racing (in the 'eighties I rode for a London Italian club and we used to go to the Bar Italia at Giro time and try to convince the guys behind the bar to turn the TV over to the RAI coverage). But it also tempts me to spend money I haven't got. Not entirely its fault, I agree - when I developed a painful neck and back recently, my remedy was to buy a Rapha backpack. A course of physiotherapy may have been cheaper and more effective.

So why am I rambling again? Well, I promised I'd tell you about the Stelvio - and I will. This September, I will be riding from Venice to Milan in three days - over the Dolomites and the frankly terrifying Stelvio Pass. It's to raise money for a cause that I care deeply about - the Geoff Thomas Foundation, now part of Leukemia and Lymphoma Research.

We're doing it in memory of Steve Mead - who was supposed to come with us last year from London to Paris but, tragically, died from his own leukaemia before the ride.

Please feel free to donate money here. I may even write some stuff about my half-hearted training, and take some pictures. Arriverderci....

Back to nearly normal

2010-01-17T22:13:00.002Z

The rigorous dieting and training regime I promised myself has not quite gone to plan. I've given up alcohol - apart from an occasional glass of wine at the weekend, but my riding has been compromised by a combination of a bad chest cold and the worst weather in the UK for thirty years. Following the freezing cold day with Sky, the heavens opened and dumped feet of snow right across London and Southern England.

The Surrey Hills were a white wasteland and half of Richmond Park was closed off because it was little more than rutted ice. A few half-hearted attempts at the turbo were all I managed.

So this morning was eagerly anticipated. Clear blue sky, no snow or ice, my chest no longer sounding as though I smoked 40 a day - out to the park on the fixed gear. Along with every other cyclist in the southern half of the UK. At least that's what it seemed like.

After a couple of laps, we passed a young woman pushing her bike and, naturally, asked her what the problem was. It turned out that she'd forgotten her tyre levers, so I lent her mine on the understanding that she'd leave them behind the till at the cafe.

She said that dozens of cyclists had passed her while she was pushing the bike, but we were the first to stop and offer help. Not very chivalrous, but the old ways of the road seem to be disappearing.

Still, I'm back on the bike, so that's a start.

And why the picture of the Stelvio? Another story, which will have to wait.

Cold Sky

2010-01-04T17:19:00.004Z

Well, we went. 0730 this morning, the secret text arrived - meet up at the Guildhall in the City of London. I'd already discovered (don't ask how, I'd have to kill you if you knew) that the actual team launch was going to be near the Mall, so that meant a 40 minute ride to the City, followed by half an hour back into the West End. On the coldest day of the decade. I know that's not saying much, but it was.....bloody cold this morning.

My son and I rolled up at the Guildhall, frozen to the bone, to find a huddle of cyclists of all shapes and sizes - from wannabe pros to old ladies on shopping bikes - standing round a collection of team cars. A cut above the usual Skodas as well - sleek grey Jaguars. I know that Jags are basically Fords these days but still, they look smart.

And so does the Sky team kit - black, white and blue Adidas, matching the gorgeous team Pinarellos.

Not much else to report, we rode through a bemused first-day-back-at-work London - led by Russell Downing and Edvald Boasson Hagen (who coped very well with the usual mix of idiot pedestrians, big red buses and psycho van drivers) and rolled onto the Mall, where we met up with the other two rides. Bradley had led people in from the London Eye.

Three laps round St James' Park with the pro riders at the front before we peeled off to get our stylish Sky musettes and the riders got on with the real business of launching a team.

Good day, one that my son (pictured above failing to listen to Tomas Lovkvist extolling the virtues of Shimano electric shifters) and I will remember for a long time.

And good on Team Sky, for at least making the effort to reach out to ordinary bike riders.

Plotting

2010-01-01T22:58:00.004Z

Here's the deal. Team Sky announce a competition - if you're available for a ride Monday morning, sign up. If you're picked, then you get to ride with the team for an hour or so. I'm not free, really - I'm supposed to be working, and neither is my son, he's supposed to be at school. But we both entered.

Guess what? He got picked, and I didn't. Now, that's not going to work. I may have to sneak in somehow. Hope they don't notice. And before you say anything, I know that's not Team Sky in the picture, it's the Sky+HD track team. But how hot does Victoria look?

Just don't call it a fixie

2009-12-29T17:30:00.006Z

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

2009-12-28T18:18:00.006Z

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

2009-07-01T13:54:00.008+01:00

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

2009-06-23T11:04:00.005+01:00

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

2009-06-13T14:15:00.005+01:00

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

2009-06-01T17:51:00.005+01:00

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

2009-05-21T16:57:00.005+01:00

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

2009-05-16T21:21:00.002+01:00

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

2009-05-10T14:31:00.007+01:00

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

2009-05-09T10:02:00.008+01:00

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

2009-05-07T13:47:00.006+01:00

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

2009-04-27T16:28:00.003+01:00

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

2009-04-20T16:34:00.003+01:00

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

2009-04-19T16:17:00.005+01:00

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?

2009-04-12T11:20:00.004+01:00

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

2009-04-10T20:10:00.003+01:00

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

2009-04-06T15:42:00.003+01:00

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

2009-04-05T11:43:00.003+01:00

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

2009-03-31T22:22:00.006+01:00

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

2009-03-24T13:22:00.003Z

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...

2009-03-22T14:45:00.003Z

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

2009-03-19T17:55:00.005Z

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

2009-03-14T12:11:00.007Z

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

2009-03-09T20:37:00.002Z

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

2009-03-08T21:41:00.004Z

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

2009-03-06T21:18:00.004Z

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?

2009-03-01T22:02:00.002Z

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

2009-03-01T14:58:00.002Z

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

2009-02-27T19:48:00.003Z

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

2009-02-22T21:56:00.003Z

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

2009-02-21T17:17:00.006Z

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

2009-02-14T18:50:00.003Z

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

2009-02-10T20:11:00.004Z

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

2009-02-06T20:17:00.007Z

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

2009-01-21T19:16:00.005Z

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

2009-01-12T18:39:00.004Z

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

2009-01-10T12:21:00.003Z

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...

2009-01-09T14:06:00.006Z

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...

2009-01-06T18:55:00.003Z

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?

2009-01-04T12:05:00.004Z

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

2009-01-03T13:49:00.003Z

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

2009-01-01T21:38:00.003Z

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.

Swiss perfection

2008-12-30T12:25:00.004Z

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?

2008-12-29T17:44:00.003Z

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...

2008-12-15T09:18:00.007Z

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

2008-12-08T16:17:00.003Z

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...

2008-12-02T15:13:00.003Z

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

2008-12-01T12:42:00.004Z

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.

Bad habits

2008-11-26T16:02:00.004Z

I've been letting myself go a bit lately. Well, not strictly myself. Although I've sold all my Rapha gear on eBay, for reasons which I may well bore you with in a future post, I think I still cut a dash in my chosen mixture of ten-year old Assos and the best bits of the Prendas bargain bin.

It's my bike maintenance that's slacking. When I commuted every day, my "work" bike would be cleaned and checked for wear, tear and potential problems at least once a week. My "racing" bike -- which actually meant my "ride at the weekend if the sun's shining" bike would be washed down and checked after every outing.

But pressures of self-employment and a new house mean they're lucky if they get a bucket of soapy water chucked over them now and then. There's even less excuse now, because our new house features -- for the first time in my life -- a purpose designed bike workshop in the basement; it's only big enough for two bikes (plus my track frame on the wall), a stand, my tools, a kettle and a radio -- but it's a big improvement on the hallway or the garden.

And the bikes are taking their revenge. First, the frame cracked on my Tempo -- now the faults are lining up and nagging for attention.

I'd noticed a creaking from the Casati for a couple of weeks.

In my experience, creaks should not be ignored. A strange noise that appears to be coming from the front wheel usually means the cranks are about to fall off. A clicking from around the bottom bracket is a sure sign that the headset is loose. And, on one memorable occasion, what sounded like creaky handlebars on my Geoff Butler track frame was actually the seat-tube slowly detaching itself from the top-tube due to 30 years of accumulated internal rust.

Fifteen miles from home last week, I thought I'd give the Casati a once-over just to check where the creak was coming from. I was disturbed to discover that half the spokes on the back wheel were the consistency of cooked spaghetti and it was rapidly turning oval. Shamefaced, I re-trued it as best I could and limped home like a circus clown on a square-wheeled comedy bike.

So much for the bomb-proof old school 32-holers, although the fact that I've never once tuned them up may be partly to blame.

Stripping them down for a proper rebuild, I decided to swap the Vittoria Paves on to my winter fixed to replace the threadbare Conti Gatorskins. Only then did I notice that the rear hub on my fixed was turning with all the smooth precision of a rusty gate post. Five minutes with a pair of cone spanners got it spinning OK, but at the expense of a fractional amount of play -- sure sign of knackered bearings. Again, a bit disappointing since it's only about 18-months old and hasn't had that hard a life.

I've got a pair of ultra-strong 36-hole Mavic Open Pro track wheels which -- realistically -- are unlikely to be used in anger again; I should probably transfer them to my winter fixed but it seems an insult to them, and a final acceptance that my racing days -- such as they were -- are definitely over.

Bring on the dark

2008-11-13T10:06:00.003Z

It happens every year, but it's always a lovely surprise. After the clocks go back, Richmond Park -- the London roadies' favourite sanctuary -- closes its gates at 4 o'clock every day. So there's a glorious period when, for a couple of hours each day, the park is light enough to ride round but deserted. Just me, a couple of other bikes, a few runners and thousands of wild animals. And you can watch the lights go on all over the city. It's a small vision of what the world could be like.

I know something similar happens on Summer evenings, but somehow the Autumn afternoons feel more special.

If you're anywhere near, join us. But watch out for the deer -- the little devils get frisky when the sun goes down and they're hard to spot in the gloom.

Not waving, drowning

2008-11-06T15:31:00.001Z

Has anyone else noticed a fundamental flaw with the route of the Giro in 2009? It's starting in Venice. Apparently, Basso's confirmed to ride, so it's a good job Bjarne taught him how to swim.

Timely reminder

2008-11-05T17:27:00.000Z

Woe! Twice woe! My lovely Condor Tempo is no more.

I was washing it last week and trying to work out if I could go a bit longer without adjusting the chain tension and changing the back tyre when I noticed a tiny crack in the paint around the seat-tube cluster. Alarmingly, there was another - even smaller - one on the other side.

Hoping it was just a paint blemish, I took it into Condor this afternoon -- only to have the sad news confirmed. Mine appears to be one of a small batch of steel frames with a manufacturing fault which leads to cracked seat tubes.

To their credit, Condor seem to be handling it well. There are no Tempo frames of the right size in stock at the moment, so they'll rebuild my parts onto a Pista frame (more track oriented, no mudguard clearance) and I can ride that until the next shipment arrives sometime in December. Then I get a new bike.

The new Tempos are dark blue, apparently, instead of the tasteful Saronni-red that mine came in -- but I think I can live with that.

I'll miss it though -- it was a great all-round, all-weather bike which was increasingly becoming my bike of choice for all kinds of riding, not just urban commuting.

And a reminder of how important it is to wash and check your bike frequently. It's the second time I've discovered a cracked frame like that -- far better than finding it on a downhill.

More random velo-memories

2008-11-03T11:14:00.000Z

Jason Kenny brought down in a crash with his Australian opponent just yards from the line, crossing it at speed on his backside and still having the presence of mind to fling his arms up in victory celebration. That's class.
Kenny and Perkins sustained some nasty-looking cuts and bruises in that crash -- which would have kept me off the bike for a couple of weeks. The pair of them were back at it the next day, riding just as hard and just as close.
The music reaching newly absurd heights. German victory in the Madison brought a rare outing for Nena's Cold War anthem "99 Luftballons" and any mention of the JKA Keirin was an excuse to dust off the Vapors' masturbation hymn "Turning Japanese". The one occasion they got it gloriously right? The GB men's pursuit team cruised round on their victory lap to the strains of "The Boys are Back in Town". Not a dry eye in the house.
There's an old fella with a shaggy perm whose sole job appears to be to wipe down the Belgian women's team with a damp flannel after each race. You never see jobs like that advertised, do you?
The sheer physical effort -- as well as the danger -- of the racing. One of the German women was on her back by the finish line for a good ten minutes before she was able to get up and walk unsteadily back to her pit area; worse, a young Hong Kong 500m time-trial competitor who took even longer to stagger back, like some late night drunk, collapsing to her knees every couple of yards.
Dave Brailsford, GB Cycling supremo, stood next to us as young Matt Crampton stormed to victory in a Keirin heat -- apparently utterly unemotional even as the crowd went hysterical. Another day in the office, with his team doing what they're expected to do.
Typical. Just when I think I've got a clear shot of the British Cycling stand -- three grinning idiots come along and spoil it.

Same Old Song

2008-11-01T23:00:00.000Z

Cycling and bad music go together like Gin and Tonic. Or, to put it in an appropriately Manchester context, chips and gravy.

The caravan which precedes the Tour de France peloton is accompanied by fromage-dripping accordion musak, and the continental Six-Days are ridden against a background of high-octane commercial techno.

But the music selection at today's Track World Cup hit new heights of audio weirdness and whoever was behind it is either a genius or seriously disturbed.

I'd grown used to the, frankly barmy, idea of playing "Zorba's Theme" for primes and the hackneyed "We Will Rock You" to hype crowd tension before match sprints but today we entered the Twilight Zone.

The merest hint of an Italian rider was greeted with blasts of the outrageously stereotypical Mambo Italiano (sample lyrics "Hey Mambo, don't want a tarantella, Hey Mambo, no more mozarella").

And any rider from Holland was serenaded with a bizarre oompah tune of mysterious origin. Despite having quite a lot of family in the Netherlands, my Dutch is non-existent, so the song may well be a stirring patriotic call to arms. Or it may translate as "Hey, fatty in the orange suit, you know you're very slow, pull up the banking now (oompah, oompah)", in which case I applaud a subtle piece of multi-lingual sledging.

In the course of a single men's sprint match we were treated to extracts of a Strauss waltz, Joey Ramone's cover of "What a Wonderful World", SL2's "On a Ragga Tip" and Blur's "Parklife" -- a playlist of such a determinedly eclectic nature that it wouldn't have disgraced the late John Peel.

The other repetitive tune of the day, of course, was God Save the Queen (not the Sex Pistols' version) which was played at every single one of the victory ceremonies. How long is it going to be before the other cycling nations do the two-wheeled equivalent of "taking their ball back" and refuse to play with us any more?

I tried again to get a picture of the British Cycling stand, but a Paul Weller look-alike contest was taking place. As you can see, the winner was quite convincing.

Random Thoughts from the velodrome

2008-11-01T12:08:00.000Z

Among the many things I never thought I'd see in my lifetime? Ticket touts outside a track cycling event. I've been to some track races (alright, I've ridden some of them) where the number of people circling the banking on bikes outnumbered the number of people watching. But yesterday afternoon, as we made our way to the Velodrome, there were a couple of scallies in smart casuals offering tickets at inflated prices.
Another? Two immaculate Colnagos, leaning unlocked outside a Manchester McDonalds. Their owners, riders from Hong Kong's track team, were missing no opportunity to stock up on carbs and essential fats.
Clearly, some of the crowd here are newcomers -- struggling with many of the arcane intricacies of track racing. To be fair, halfway through the men's scratch race I gave up trying to work out which riders were a lap up, who was two laps up and who was off the back and resorted to shouting "Come on, Bradley", with everyone else.
Although it's a partisan crowd, cheering all British riders to the rafters, it's also a knowledgeable one which recognises quality riding above everything else. The cheers for Francois Pervis when the Cofidis rider edged Jason Kenny by less than a tyre's width in an exciting keirin final were genuine and generous.
Victoria Pendleton is awesome. Just awesome. Without taking anything away from her at all, you can see her opponents visibly giving up the minute she starts turning on the power.
I wanted to get a picture of the nice new British Cycling stand by the South Curve, but some fat bloke was being interviewed in front of it.

Shameless Trackies

2008-10-29T10:37:00.000Z

Off to Manchester tomorrow, for the latest round of the Track World Cup.

It will be interesting to see whether the post-Beijing hysteria over track cycling has affected the event. Apparently, tickets sold out in record time and many of those attending are likely to be first-timers. Hope they're not disappointed.

Previous World Cups at the Velodrome have been really enjoyable -- exciting racing, well organised but with a laid back, friendly atmosphere and a chance to get close to the action and the riders. Though not too close, obviously -- especially since Yvonne Hijgenaar's lawyers obtained an injunction preventing me from going within 100m of their client while she was wearing a skin-suit.

I will be able to renew my acquaintance with the perfect training diet -- roast beef rolls with gravy, washed down by warm Boddington's -- an ideal combination of carbs, protein and fluid largely responsible for the success of the GB track squad. Bradley Wiggins swears by it.

I shall probably take the macbook with me and may even blog from the event -- just like a proper reporter. I was sceptical about facilities "up North" but Mrs Flandrian, who's from round there, claims that things have changed and they've now got the internet and everything.

We shall see.

Pray for Fatty

2008-10-28T19:12:00.000Z

Like thousands of others, I've been captivated by the writing of Elden Nelson, aka Fatty, and his blog. He's written entertainingly about all aspects of cycling and movingly about his beloved wife's struggle with cancer.

Things are looking very dark now for Elden, Susan and their family.

It feels as though we should be doing something, but of course there's little we can. You can visit his blog and leave a message, as hundreds are doing.

Or go out for a ride, preferably wearing your Fat Cyclist jersey, and thank whatever God you believe in for the continued well-being of those you love. That's what I'll be doing tomorrow.

And I'll be thinking of Fatty.

The importance of cool

2008-10-26T13:16:00.000Z

Some intriguing cycling insights in November's Observer Sport Monthly.

First, top tailor and ex-roadie Sir Paul Smith on the importance of two-wheeled style:

"I remember when I started racing there was one boy who nearly always won and he'd got black socks instead of white socks. Me and my friends were harassed by that 'How could he win? He's got black socks!'

Did you think of wearing black socks yourself?

"No, far too uncool. I'd sooner lose but look good. No, that's not true. But the main thing with this boy was how brave he was. Even though I had a dream of being a professional cyclist, I would never have achieved it, because I'm not brave enough."

Sir Paul also admits, for the first time, that the horrendous crash that ended his racing career was probably caused by his "Buddy Holly" sunglasses -- which were so dark and thick-framed that he couldn't see where he was going. Bet they looked cool, though.

Sunglasses were a rarity on British cyclists in the fifties and sixties -- a sure sign of a "Leaguer" and their funny continental ways. Even when I started racing in the eighties, the majority of the pack were bare-eyed -- it took Greg Lemond and his huge-lensed Oakleys to make them acceptable. And I still think the original Oakley Factory Pilots were the coolest cycling eyewear ever. I had a blue pair and, despite their annoying tendency to lose their foam pads at critical moments, they were great. Still available, for inflated sums, on E-bay.

Also in the magazine, an entertaining Q&A with triple Olympian Bradley Wiggins -- who displays a likeable obsession with various collectables: including scooters, guitars, boxing memorabilia and fancy shoes.

"It's just what I am, whatever I go into I try to be the best at it....I have mad passionate periods discovering something and have to become a world expert on that".

A male cyclist with obsessive tendencies, driven to take things to the extreme? I think that's most unusual, and will come as a surprise to the relatives of cyclists everywhere.

Heroes Pt.2

2008-10-24T15:23:00.000+01:00

It's not often that I'm excited by encountering an inanimate object, but getting your hands on the FA Cup is genuinely a once-in-a-lifetime moment. Eldest son and I were determined to have the moment recorded, especially since -- as a number of helpful bystanders pointed out -- it was the closest that two Crystal Palace fans were ever likely to get to it again.

We were at FA Headquarters for a very special occasion -- a reception for Geoff Thomas's New York Marathon team. Geoff's story is well known: former Crystal Palace and England footballer, diagnosed with leukemia, makes a full recovery and -- partly inspired by Lance Armstrong -- decides to ride the route of the Tour De France to raise money for research. Having done that twice, he's still seeking new challenges -- hence the NY Marathon.

His team includes some well-known cycling figures including Brian Smith, Anthony McCrossan and Stephen Roche, who -- according to a well-placed insider last night -- has lost a lot of weight in training and is set for a respectable time.

Highlight of our evening was meeting Geoff in person -- a truly modest, inspiring man whose relaxed and friendly exterior clearly hides a steel determination.

The Geoff Thomas Foundation is aiming to raise £20 million over the next five years to fund early clinical trials of new blood cancer therapies. Please consider donating money to this excellent cause.

And somewhere after the second beer, I think I may have expressed an interest in riding London to Paris next year. Damn. Here we go again.

Heroes

2008-10-21T21:17:00.000+01:00

Later this week, my son and I may get to meet one of our great sporting heroes. If it happens, readers of this blog can expect a full report and photos. All three of you.

After twenty years or so as a journalist, I'm a little ambivalent about fame and celebrity. I've interviewed enough so-called heroes to have realistic expectations. Some (Billy Bragg, Tanni Grey-Thompson, Tony Benn) have proved to be everything I hoped they would be. Some (who shall remain nameless) have proved themselves to be complete a-holes.

Twenty years ago, I interviewed a Living Cycling Legend. He turned out to be charming, modest and funny, but it was a short conversation before the interview that has stuck in my mind. I was notionally interviewing him about his auto-biography which had been, inevitably, ghost-written by a journalist.

Me: I really enjoyed the book. (Writer) has done a great job -- it's not like most sports autobiographies, he's really managed to make it sound like you.

Living Cycling Legend: Yes, I think he's done well. Loads of people have said that it sounds just like me.

Me: I imagine that must be an odd sensation -- what did you think when you first read the book?

LCL: Oh, I haven't read it.

Me: But it's your autobiography -- the story of your life. How can you not read it?

LCL: I suppose it is a bit odd. But I've never been one for the books.

Me: Err...but aren't you even a bit curious about what it says?

LCL: Not really. (Long pause) I did read a book once, though. "Raise the Titanic", it was. Very interesting. I enjoyed it.

Me: But not enough to...

LCL: Read another one? No, it's not for me. Actually, I did read another book. Can't remember the title now. It was about the Titanic as well. Didn't finish it, though.

Me (genuinely lost for words): Err....OK, shall we start the interview?

It's always struck me as an intriguing insight into the peloton, and a clear explanation of why Laurent Fignon was known, largely because he wore glasses and occasionally read a book without pictures, as The Professor.

Forza Paolo

2008-10-14T20:07:00.000+01:00

I was flicking through the most recent copy of Rouleur the other day -- time passes slowly at Flandrian Towers and I've only just got round to reading it. Is it just me, or is this copy heavy on arty photographs of fans but a bit light on, you know, words. About cycling. Not being picky, but I rather hoped for more for my nine quid.

Good article in there about iconic jerseys, though -- apparently the first of a two-part series. I got to thinking about my favourite jerseys of all time and soon realised there's only one that works for me.

In the early eighties, Paolo Garbini, with his wife Mariela, ran a tiny, chaotic bike shop in the heart of London's Soho. It's hard now to recall quite how different cycling was back then. The mountain-bike boom was yet to happen, there were no indexed-gears, STI-levers or clipless pedals. Jerseys were mainly wool or a gruesome knitted polyester and the chamois pads in shorts were real goat.

Local bike shops were core to the scene, their character usually set by the idiosyncrasies and eccentricities of their owners. And there were few more idiosyncratic and eccentric than Paolo.

Short, skinny and red-haired, it was impossible to guess Paolo's age -- although he and Mariela had a teenage daughter who helped out in the shop. His battle-worn but immaculate Alan-framed bike was prominently displayed by the door, and Paolo invariably wore cycling shorts and a jersey in the shop; but he was rarely spotted riding. Most often he would be found sitting on the doorstep or in his tiny curtained office -- smoking his foul-smelling pipe.

From this shop, packed with exotic Italian jerseys, Campagnolo components in their beige cardboard packaging, walls lined with cuttings from the Gazetto Dello Sport, Paolo also ran the Soho Cycling Club, a loose collection of serious racers and weekend warriors -- popular with many of the expatriate Italians who worked in Soho's restaurant and catering trade.

On Sunday mornings, a ragbag of riders would meet outside the shop before setting off for a traditional 80-mile club run through the minor roads and hills of Kent or Surrey. Often Paolo would join us, on the front of the group, swearing, telling long incomprehensible stories in English and engaging the Italian members in loud arguments.

It was my first proper club and I wore, and raced in, its jersey with pride.

The club, and Paolo's shop, are long gone but the jersey lives on. In the Italian champion's colours, covered with the names of our local sponsors, including the iconic Bar Italia coffee house, it's still the most stylish and frequently admired item of bike clothing I own.

And it's still in use at least once a week, although it fits a little more snugly than twenty years ago.

It's a retro thing

2008-10-08T18:35:00.000+01:00

I'm not sure I completely get some aspects of the current upsurge in retro bike clothing. In particular, where's it going to stop?

I can understand the fascination with Molteni, Faema and even Peugeot. You may just be advertising sausages and coffee machines but they're design classics, icons from a simpler time when team kits didn't scream a thousand mixed messages.

From a later era, the Del Tongo and Brooklyn jerseys are still stylish and timeless.

But now we're being urged to buy "classic" PDM and Reynolds kit and I'm not sure I'm with that particular programme. Still less do I buy the idea that Mapei holds any magic. Not only does it make you look like you've been attacked by a colour-blind madman with a box of Sharpies, it's now generally accepted that the team were a bunch of cheating toe-rags.

I'm surprised that one of the truly iconic '80's team kits, the Mondrian-inspired La Vie Claire-Look outfit, hasn't been made available. It was one of the first to be widely adopted by "ordinary" riders, and I still regret throwing out my multi-coloured winter training jacket. Knowing the history of team owner Bernard Tapie, it's likely that some complicated legal issue lies behind its non-appearance.

Presumably, issues over copyright logos lie behind the design philosophy of New Zealand brand Solo. They produce high-end, sublimation printed jerseys in national colours, featuring the logos of made-up brands. If I find the idea of riding round dressed as a billboard for a Spanish central heating firm odd, I find it even odder that you'd want to advertise an imaginary Belgian beer. But the jerseys look nice, and they're Kiwis, so I suppose we should cut them some slack.

It's probably safe to assume that some team kits will never be reissued. Aqua e Sapone anyone? Thought not. Though I do think that, after the eyeball-searing horrors of the 90's, kit design is going through a relatively tasteful phase, perhaps reflecting a wider understanding of decent design among the general public.

In this month's Cycle Sport, there's a reminder of one truly ghastly kit that had been wiped from my memory. I thought that Carrera Jeans' attempt to make their riders look as though they were wearing stone-washed denims was a low-point in cycling fashion, but I'd forgotten Castorama.

The French DIY chain designed their shirt and jerseys to look like workmens' blue bib overalls.

Check out the Maurizio Fondriest article in Cycle Sport, and the photo with Laurent Fignon in the background.

Imagine the shame. You are a two-time winner of the Tour De France, generally recognised as one of the coolest, most stylish racers ever. You exude chilly Parisian chic and, with your gold rimmed glasses and ponytail, you would look entirely at home in the Deux Magots, arguing existentialism with Jean Paul and Simone.

Then your employer forces you to dress like Bob the Builder. Tragic, truly tragic.

Good News...

2008-10-07T12:51:00.000+01:00

...I think.

Decent bike shops are thin on the ground, even in a city the size of London. Condor are reliably well-stocked and the staff know what they're talking about, though you'd be looking at their prices for a very long time before you mistook them for cheap.

Some people swear by Mosquito Bikes or Sigma Sport -- though they're in the wrong part of town for me, and Cyclefit in Covent Garden has its fans as well. Further out of town, there's the excellent Geoff Butler in Croydon and Pearsons down in Sutton.

Years ago, FW Evans in Waterloo was a haven for roadies -- before the Evans brand grew like Topsy and became a characterless nationwide retail chain.

There were a couple of other Evans branches in those days, but everyone knew that the one in "The Cut" was for the hardcore. If you wanted serious racing bikes - new and secondhand, proper own-brand touring machines or bomb-proof handbuilt wheels, then Evans Waterloo was the place.

I bought a couple of excellent 531 racing frames there in the 'Eighties, and was once nearly talked into buying an aluminium, Colnago-badged, ex-pro-team bike which I suspect may have seen hard service in the Northern Classics and would probably have come unglued by the time I reached the Elephant and Castle roundabout.

In recent years, it's become just another bike shop, full of hybrids and anonymous Taiwanese racers but it's now going through a re-brand -- being advertised as "a road-riders paradise" with an emphasis on top road bikes and parts.

Good business sense, I suspect, given the explosion in road bike sales over the past year or so -- but good news as well for London's roadies.

What happened to Summer?

2008-09-10T22:08:00.000+01:00

Every year it's the same.

After Xmas, I have such high expectations of the coming Summer and what I'm going to achieve.

Long rides with eldest son, some bike camping trips, a good selection of sportives. And what happens? One day I wake up and it's already Autumn. Like today. And what have I done? Nothing.

Already time to be thinking about arm-warmers and winter rebuilds. Damn. Next year, it'll be different.

Incidentally, in response to persistent speculation and rumour, I can confirm that I am planning to come out of retirement. Obviously, I could happily rest on a palmares that includes a couple of second places in Tuesday night crits at Crystal Palace and a 26-minute ten. But I believe the cause of slightly overweight fifty-year old cyclists needs global promotion.

Seriously. I'm OK about having the Texan back. But not, please God, ugly cheating git Floyd Landis. We've suffered enough.

Separated at birth?

2008-09-01T23:56:00.000+01:00

Captain Bertorelli

Fillipo Pozzato

Red Chains

2008-08-31T21:27:00.000+01:00

Red chains. They're another harbinger of the apocalypse. Possibly. I'm sure they're mentioned somewhere in Revelations.

Not with me? Then you probably don't live in an overpriced, would-be-hip London borough where the fixed-gear road bike has become the twatterati's vehicle of choice.

You may have been aware of the, harmless, fashion for colour-coding fixed bikes -- white tyres, white stem, white grips etc., etc. But yesterday, I rolled up at the lights next to someone with a black-framed singlespeed with bright red rims and matching chain. Every link enameled like a postbox. What's that about? How do you keep it clean?

All questions I would have asked the owner but (a) she was having enough trouble riding the bike without speaking as well, (b) she really didn't look too friendly.

Despite my occasional Grumpy Old Man outbursts, I'm delighted that more and more people are taking up cycling.

Riding fixed has been part of my cycling life for nearly 30 years. My winter hack always had a 66-inch on it, so did everyone else's. About 20 years ago, I noticed some London couriers riding fixed and realised how suited to commuting my winter hack would be. Almost on the spot, I abandoned my commuting bike of the time (a Saracen Conquest) and dug out my Dawes Galaxy with the fixed rear-end.

Since then, the majority of my miles have been fixed. On a selection of home-builds of varying quality -- until last year when I managed to wangle a beautiful Condor through the bike-to-work scheme.

One of my rides -- a lovely but fragile 1960's Geoff Butler road/path -- was so well known among London's then relatively small fixed community that people would stop at traffic lights to chat about it.

In the past year or so, fixed-gear fever has gone epidemic.

There's a sense of losing something special -- like when a favourite new band that no-one else knows about has a hit single; but mostly it's positive.

Except for one thing. Security has never been an issue with my fixed bikes. I've always been reassured by the fact that the average bike thief would be far more likely to nick a hybrid or a cheap, easily resold mountain bike than mine. Who wants a ratty-looking old thing with drop handlebars and no gears. And even if they did nick it, how far would they get?

All that's changed of course. Fixed are now eminently resellable and the scallies know that; and stripped down singlespeeds have replaced BMX's as the interim transport of the drug dealers on our local estate (before they graduate to Audi TT's).

Give them a year, and they'll have moved on to something else. But make sure you keep an eye on your bike 'till then.

What a difference a day makes Pt 2

2008-08-25T22:47:00.000+01:00

Good ride today -- aside from the Mercedes incident; warm, still and dry -- and my body vaguely obeying my instructions for once.

Which was a relief, because Saturday was a stinker. We were in drought-stricken Andalucia for the worst period of the British "summer", but it's still been a fairly miserable couple of months.

Saturday, though, dawned clear, cold and bright and with a definite feel of Autumn in the air -- probably my favourite time of year.

But I was pedalling squares all the way. Slow on the flats, wheezing on the hills and struggling into the wind: a bike ride is normally guaranteed to cheer me up but as the ride progressed I got steadily more crabby.

Even the sunshine in Richmond Park failed to lift the gloom and I became increasingly, irrationally irritated by, in no particular order:

People riding Cervelos in full CSC kit
People riding really slowly on full-aero time-trial bars
People with v-shaped, twin water-bottle holders behind their saddles
A really fat bloke with ultra-lightweight carbon racing wheels -- c'mon, City Boy, even you can see the inherent logical flaw there, right?
The two oldish riders sitting outside the cafe in perfect, retro Italian jerseys -- loudly discussing the relative merits of vintage Campagnolo groupsets (although only because they reminded me of the sort of dreary misanthrope I could probably become unless I got my act together pretty quickly)

So glad that normal service was resumed today. Measured your quads yet?

Justice

2008-08-25T10:28:00.000+01:00

Seen to be done.

Early this morning, cranking my way up a long steep hill, I was passed - way too close, way too fast - by an idiot in a bronze Mercedes coupe.

Literally less than half-a-mile later, I came across the same Mercedes, stopped in a lay-by with the driver by the side of the road, being given a ticket by a traffic cop with a speed-gun.

I briefly considered a Paolo Bettini-style rifle celebration, but contented myself with a broad grin instead.

Quadtastic

2008-08-23T18:33:00.001+01:00

Years ago, in what passed for my track racing heyday, I had a T-shirt which read "I'm not fat, I'm a sprinter".

Total lie, of course -- I couldn't sprint the skin off a rice pudding. Something to do with my "fast-twitch" muscles being completely outnumbered by my "can't-be-arsed-to-twitch-at-all-muscles".

Maybe I should dig it out of the drawer again now; thanks to Sir Christopher Hoy (Lord Hoy of Meadowbank?), the British public are used to the idea of cyclists being hulking musclemen rather than skinny runts -- Hoy's massive shoulders and quads like Iberian hams will be the defining memory for many of Beijing 2008.

And speaking of thigh muscles, I've been entertained by Beth Bikes, a cute blog from a Northern California trackie who's obsessed -- in a good way -- with her quads.

Like some Bridget Jones of the velodrome, Beth measures her own -- and other riders' -- and publishes the results on her site. Hers are currently an impressive 63.5 cm at the widest point, only a few centimetres short of Gregory Bauge and his trouser-ripping 69-ers.

Beth's currently engaged in a battle to convince Michael Ball (not the West End Musical Star), CEO of Rock and Republic clothing, to make a "Keirin-cut" jean, specifically designed for women with larger quads than the average scrawny supermodel.

It's not a problem I've really encountered -- if I ever attempted to wear skinny-indy-boy jeans, my wife and daughters would never speak to me again. And Gap's straight-cut fit me fine. But Beth's case is a worthy one so give her some support.

Life magazine once printed a life-size photo of Muhammad Ali's clenched right fist. The picture editor said the genius of it was that no-one -- male or female, young or old -- could resist laying their own hand on the page to see how it compared.

And no-one reading Beth's blog can resist digging the Ikea soft tape measure out of the cupboard and measuring their own quads.

60 cm since you ask, and not a milimetre of fat.

No cheating, now.

Alberto's long lost twin

2008-08-17T22:07:00.000+01:00

I was reading Procycling's profile of Alberto Contador by my Spanish holiday poolside when I was struck by the remarkable similarities between myself and CSC's Puerto-dodging stage race superstar.

Some of the similarities are obvious, of course -- the slim, athletic build; dark good looks and natural ability on the bike -- but others are less so.

Both Alberto and I have recently made (hopefully) full recoveries from life-threatening cerebral haemorrhages. In his case, he's gone on to win a couple of Grand Tours; in mine -- well, I've finished a a few sportives and I didn't actually come last in the Catford Hill Climb.

Also, and here's where we really enter the Twilight Zone -- our choice of holiday venue.

When Alberto got the fateful call from Johann Bruyneel to say that his services were required in the Giro after all, he was relaxing in his Speedos on the beach at Chiclana, the nondescript Andalucian Atlantic town selected by the Flandrian family for our annual two-weeks by the sea.

The sceptical Italian press -- convinced Bertie had secretly been climbing cols or undergoing some covert "training" of another kind -- wrote dismissively of the "Chiclana Preparation Method", leading his girlfriend Macarena to brandish restaurant bills from their holiday as proof.

The "Chiclana Preparation Method" sounded right up my street, and I lost no time getting stuck in to the local food and drink just like Alberto. In fact, I have obtained copies of one of his restaurant bills and the comparison with mine makes compelling reading:

Alberto Contador

Finca San Juan, Chiclana De La Frontera

May 5

1 x Agua Minerale Sin Gas

1 x Dorada

1 x Ensalada Mixta

1x Cafe Solo

Flandrian:

Finca San Juan, Chiclana De La Frontera

Aug 3

2x Finos

3x Cervezas San Miguel

1x Gambas Aioli

1x Entrecot de ternera, patatas fritas

1x btlla Marques De Caceres Rioja

1x Churros con chocolate "Jan Ulrich"

1x Cafe solo

Uncannily similar, I think you'll agree. After a few meals like that and a couple of swift rides round my 35k seaside training loop, I felt ready to take on the Passo Di Gavia and no mistake.

I was so intrigued by the connection with Alberto that I even -- for only the second time in 17 years -- drew Mrs Flandrian's attention to an article in a cycling magazine. She glanced up from her 700-page feminist novel for 15 seconds before remarking that she would be more interested if my paycheque, or my backside, were the same size as his.

This, of course, was simply another example of the famous dry Northern sense of humour, and not to be taken seriously.

The following day, for instance, as we drove to the beach we came up behind a lone young Spanish roadie and I made a mildly disparaging remark about his white bib-shorts.

Mrs Flandrian examined him at some length before commenting.

"I'm sure you're right dear, but I think he can get away with it where you can't"

How we laughed.

Donde esta el Flandrian?

2008-08-01T22:02:00.001+01:00

Me and Gordon, we're both off on our holidays. Not to the same place. If Clickair don't bend the Casati, I shall be riding for two weeks in the land of Sastre, Indurain and chilled white Rioja.

Hasta Luego.

And your mother...

2008-07-29T19:39:00.000+01:00

Hooray. The nice guy won. Sorry, I've been busy.

And, yes I do know how many years Carlos spent with Manolo Saiz, and how long he's been under the wing of "Mr 60 percent" at CSC but I don't care. He won with a daring breakaway on a crucial stage, he's got two very cute kids and he's not Cadel bloody Evans.

Speaking of arrogant Australian arseholes, I'm still puzzling over an incident on Sunday.

After 30 years, I'm immune to the fact that some drivers are clueless. These days, it really doesn't bother me much. I used to get into fights on a regular basis but after a particularly gruesome confrontation in the late eighties between me on my Colnago and a bread van driver in Maida Vale, I came to my senses.

I worked out the logical conclusion to my behaviour -- I would either end up killing someone, or be killed myself. Neither was to be encouraged.

Ever since, I have been a model of Zen calm on the bike -- trying to ride fast, on "the high side" as recommended by Richard Ballantine, but courteously. I stop at lights and wave pedestrians over crossings with a smile. In return, most of my rides are relatively stress free and pleasant.

Incidentally, is it just me or, since the departure of Matt Seaton, has the Guardian's "Two Wheels" column become a soapbox for mithering old moaners doing their best to scare people off riding a bike?

I digress.

Sunday morning. Clear blue skies, light wind -- Richmond Park. Myself and my regular riding partner are circling at a fair clip -- just under 40kph, (I've recently replaced the battery in my Cateye and can't be bothered to reset it to mph). Some of the time we're riding each other's wheels, mostly we're side by side -- no more than a handlebar's width apart.

Suddenly, another rider appears and begins shouting angrily, in an Australian accent.

"Are you going to f****ing overtake or what?", before riding off ahead. My riding partner, not a man to be trifled with in matters of bike etiquette, sprints to catch up and harsh words are exchanged. The Australian -- wearing nasty white sunglasses and what appear to be baggy mountain bike shorts -- undermines his cool further by cocking up a gear change and being left behind.

But, ten minutes later -- he's back with us, shouting again -- slightly less aggressively -- about "showing respect to other riders", and "making way for people coming up behind you".

Did I miss another memo from Cycling Headquarters?

I'm genuinely not aware of any rule or convention that says two people can't ride side by side on an open road because they might block "faster" riders. If a pack of riders were coming through at speed, I'd certainly pull back to single file (especially if they were London Dynamo, but that's a different issue).

Otherwise, if I'm riding on my own I'm perfectly happy to pass small groups of riders if they're going slower than me. Perhaps it's different elsewhere.

Perhaps that's why Cadel Evans is so miserable.

May the best man win

2008-07-23T22:33:00.001+01:00

Gripping Tour stage to Alpe D'Huez, and ITV4 must have been delighted that they chose today to broadcast the whole stage live.

Fans of Overcoming can't fail to have some affection for the little climber Carlos Sastre - his enthusiasm and dedication, above all his general niceness, humanity and obvious love for his family.

Classic team performance from CSC as well.

It would be unexpectedly delightful if Carlos managed to hold on to yellow all the way to the podium in Paris.

Freakshow

2008-07-21T11:29:00.000+01:00

Just when I think that road cycling has truly entered the mainstream, something always happens to remind me of the uncomfortable truth -- we are freaks, unwelcome in polite society.

As the school holidays come closer, there's been a series of social events connected to my youngest son's school -- including a Saturday afternoon picnic. I'd negotiated with Mrs Flandrian that I could go the picnic with them, spend a respectable time socialising, then disappear on a training ride for an hour or so.

So I rolled up -- on my Casati, in racing kit. These are people who are used to seeing me with a bike and wearing bike gear -- I've hardly been hiding my velo-obsessiveness in a closet for the past four years -- but the reactions varied from the astonished to the faintly hostile. I would have attracted less attention if I'd turned up in a tutu and wellingtons.

One mother puzzled for several minutes over the fact that I was riding for pleasure, i.e that I wasn't actually going anywhere or doing anything "useful", simply riding for the sake of it. She recounted with horror the habits of a strange friend who "gets up every Sunday morning, rides to Richmond Park, goes two or three times round it and then comes home again" as if there was something deeply suspicious in his behaviour.

"You probably know him", she said in a disapproving tone. I had to explain that I don't know, personally, every one of the several hundred London riders who regularly use the capital's most cycling-friendly open space.

When I turned up at a party with many of the same people that evening, my bizarre clothing and activities were still the subject of ridicule and debate. One of the younger mothers had, apparently, been making frank, lewd and largely positive remarks about my calves, which was at least cheering - if a little weird. While not quite the horror-show of a Hincapie or a Kelly, my calves are still sufficiently knobbly and riddled with varicose veins to scare small children.

And this is in a class where at least five other Dads are regular cyclists, one has completed the Etape, one London-to-Paris and another the Nueve Colli.

What more do we have to do before we're regarded as normal? Although, to be honest, is that what we really want?

Sick Note

2008-07-17T23:02:00.000+01:00

The Fierce Physio was furious.

My shoulder, which had been on the mend, had now relapsed to a point where I couldn't bring my right hand across my chest and touch my left shoulder.

(I know Cadel Evans is currently doing a fairly convincing job of holding on to the maillot jaune with a much worse shoulder injury than mine, but I'm a wimp.)

What - she demanded -- had caused this relapse?

Well, I explained, Mrs Flandrian had me digging holes in the garden at the weekend; and painting the walls in the cellar and, well, there was the small matter of a several 50k bike rides.

The Fierce Physio was shocked.

"Gardening is very bad for it, you'll have to stay away from that. And painting? All that stretching out and applying pressure -- worse thing possible, don't do any more. The cycling's not really a problem".

Heh, heh.

Just passing

2008-07-14T11:40:00.000+01:00

32 quite hilly miles today, at a good fast pace. My shoulder feels as though someone's sticking a knife in-between the bony bits, but it's a big improvement on a month ago.

My riding companion and I took to discussing the general miserableness of some of the bikies you see out on the road -- with their head-down, grimacing unwillingness to acknowledge anyone else.

Maynard Hershon has some theories on it, and Michael Hutchinson wrote recently in the Comic on a related theme -- what's the etiquette for passing a slower rider? To talk or not to talk, to acknowledge or not?

To be honest, that's probably a bigger question for Hutch than me -- these days I sometimes struggle to pass old ladies on their Raleigh Shoppers (some of them have a vicious final sprint).

But there is one area of etiquette that does trouble me -- passing female riders. Again, most women steam past me while I'm out on the road, but even I catch up and pass the occasional slower female cyclist.

There seem to be three options, none of which is ideal:

Put on a burst of speed and shoot past, reinforcing their belief that male cyclists are arrogant show-offs who have to display their testosterone-fuelled physical superiority at every opportunity
Pass more slowly, offering pleasantries about the weather, the gradient of the road etc., probably raising the fear that this is a socially-inept attempt at a chat-up, and that if she responds she'll be stuck with you for at least the next ten miles
Dither about, not passing her -- which suggests that you are simply a pervert and are taking the opportunity to study her lycra-clad bottom

More complicated than you thought, isn't it?

I've taken to passing at a medium speed and offering a carefully-modulated, non-committal greeting, without making eye-contact.

Most respond in kind -- some with a faint note of surprise in their voice, although I'm not sure whether it's because they've been spoken to, or simply that this red-faced, wheezing fatty is somehow going slightly faster than them.

I'll continue my experiment and report back. All other views welcome.

The Old Block

2008-07-12T22:34:00.000+01:00

Nothing new about bike bling of course.

Take this picture of a right 'flash harry' from the 1930's. Apologies for the quality, but you might just be able to make out that it's a Bates BAR, with a chrome-plated frame and a new-fangled derailleur gear where a fixed hub would normally have been.

Wrist-length black leather gloves (were Rapha around even then?) a white alpaca cycling jacket, white socks and black racing shoes are the icing on the two-wheeled cake.

The dashing rider is my father. Judging from the Anderson shelter in another photograph, they date from around 1940, when he would have been 18-years-old.

A Bates BAR cost about 38 pounds in those days, when manual workers in Britain earned a little over 3 pounds a week. My father was an apprentice in a bakery, so a bike like that was a significant investment.

He put it to good use though -- here, he's on the way back from a massed-start race at Donnington Park to the family home in South London. I'll repeat that -- he rode from South London to Donnington Park, took part in a race and rode home again.

And who could resist the cigar-shaped tubing, the wonky diadrant forks, the (5 pounds extra) chrome plating?

A passion for cycling and a love of style over financial common sense. He passed a couple of things on to his son.

When the man comes around

2008-07-11T14:24:00.000+01:00

The incomparable NewYorkBikeSnob is fond of identifying signs and portents of what he believes is the forthcoming apocalypse -- according to him, at least one of the four horsemen will be riding a Bianchi track bike on the road.

I think I may have seen further evidence this morning of the imminent arrival of that fateful day.

I was trying to sneak in a quick training ride between rain showers when a pop and an unmistakable squidgy feeling announced a blown front tyre. No disaster -- I had tools, a pump and a spare tube and, anyway, I'd just passed a branch of Evans, so I could get another spare tube for the onward journey.

So I found myself in the bike shop, deserted except for one assistant, and another customer in front of me -- an expensively-dressed twenty-something whose Specialized race bike was propped up against the counter beside him.

I'm not sure what model it was (to be honest, all Specialized and Trek's look the same to me) but there was a lot of carbon and it clearly wasn't entry-level. He appeared to be buying a Specialized branded water bottle.

The conversation went -- verbatim -- like this:

Assistant: "Is that everything, sir?"

Customer: "Yes, thanks. Oh, do you do servicing here -- because I think my bike needs one?"

A: "Yes, of course"

C: "How much do you charge?"

A: "It's 55 pounds plus parts for a standard service"

C (clearly outraged): "What? You charge 55 quid for putting a bit of oil on the chain?"

A: "Er, no -- if you want us to oil your chain, we'll do that free, but the service means we adjust everything."

C (still outraged, staring at his bike): "But....it's a bike! What is there to adjust?"

A: "Er...gears, brakes, hubs, wheels - that sort of thing"

The customer stared at the assistant, then at me, tugged down the legs of his Assos shorts and departed without another word -- clearly convinced he was the victim of some massive leg-pull.

And during this conversation, I swear I heard the sound of ghostly horse-hooves heading through the Wandsworth one-way system.

As I was saying....

2008-07-10T21:33:00.001+01:00

...before I was so rudely interrupted.

Well, what a cock-up that was. Regular readers of this blog, who I estimate number about three, will have noticed a distinct lack of posts. And a distinct lack of news about my efforts in L'Enfer Du Nord.

To cut a long and deeply depressing story short, I had to pull out with about a week to go when it became clear that the shoulder injury I picked up in the Alps in March was not going to heal any time soon, in fact it was getting worse.

A week's, probably ill-advised, surfing in Devon was the final straw.

There followed a long period of gloom, and not much on-bike time -- since even relatively short rides would result in numbness and an inability to perform relatively simple tasks, like eating or brushing my teeth.

I didn't feel much like writing.

But, it's slowly getting better. To the extent that I've entered a longish (155k) sportive in September as a kick-start to my training for 2010

As to the blog - keep checking back. I was spurred into posting by two things - first, Richard Lee's rather nice Cycling Art blog, which features a link to here -- shamefully showing no new contributions for two months.

And second, this fabulous picture from Stage 3 of the Tour. Bernard "Le Blaireau" reminding a misguided protester why he was justly regarded as the hardest man in the peloton, and why nobody ever tried to take liberties on his watch.

Chapeau, Bernard -- a blow for old blokes everywhere.

Bella Figura pt.2

2008-05-08T19:54:00.001+01:00

Bella Figura

2008-05-08T19:24:00.000+01:00

With the Giro due to start in just a few days, this seems as good a time as any to say that I love Italy -- and the Italians.

Some of this affection was passed on by my Father -- a fellow cyclist and lifelong admirer of Italian food, wine and music. He took me -- as a small boy -- to Naples, a city which -- twenty years earlier -- he and his RAF colleagues had enthusiastically attempted to flatten, then fallen in love with.

Ever since, I've shared his love of the country memorably characterised by Dave Stohler's Dad in Breaking Away as one where "the men shave their legs, but the women don't shave theirs."

I admire Italian design and their passion for the really important things in life -- like cycling.

Across thirty years of velo-obsessiveness, most of my bikes have been Italian, running on Italian hardware.

But one thing which has begun to grate a little recently is the Italian insistence on their innate superiority in dress sense. Certainly there was a time when Italians -- especially Italian men --were better dressed than their fellow Europeans, but I think that may have passed.

Filippo Pozzato is at it again in this month's Cycle Sport -- a man possessed by the worst peloton hairdo since Laurent Brochard, and wearing a leather jacket he appears to have borrowed from a Neapolitan pimp -- lectures other riders on their clothing deficiencies. Most of these alleged deficiencies -- he claims -- are because the riders in question are not Italian, and therefore not blessed with innate style.

His argument is weakened slightly by appearing in the same issue as Dave Millar - a man with a real sense of style, and no need to resort to iffy perms and giant designer logos.

And weakened further by these pictures -- admittedly of two of my favourite cyclists of all time. Separated by forty years, but united by a shared inability to look in the mirror before going out.

Not everything Italian is automatically stylish. Enjoy the Giro.

Maynard Hershon

2008-05-01T19:33:00.000+01:00

I've been on this Interweb malarkey for a good few years now; long enough that I was once a number not a name in the original Compuserve "community". In fact, it was while taking part in a very lo-tech Fantasy Tour De France on a Compuserve forum in the early nineties that I first realised there were people in this world even sadder than me.

But it wasn't until this week that I realised that the great Maynard Hershon had a blog. Maynard's books "Half-Wheel Hell" and "Tales from the Bike Shop" are now out of print, although I suspect an E-Bay or Amazon search could turn up a copy, but much of his excellent writing has been revised and reprinted in digital form.

I first came across Maynard in the mid-Eighties, when he wrote a column for the US cycle racing magazine Winning.

This was long before Procycling and Cycle Sport, so UK bikies were stuck with the dull and parochial Comic and not much else. During the Giro, Paolo Garbini would let us sniff his Gazetta at his shop in Great Pulteney Street, and I would buy L'Equipe during the Tour to look at the pictures and brush up my schoolboy French.

So Winning came as a breath of fresh air. True, you had to wade through pages of unnecessary guff about obscure mid-Western crits, and its Grand Tour coverage was inevitably tilted towards LeMond or the 7-Eleven squad - but at least it had good colour pictures and intelligent writing.

And Maynard Hershon -- and his folksy, quirky monthly column. Tales of old-school mechanics, mid-week races and life viewed through the uniquely twisted prism of a cycling obsessive. Imagine Prairie Home Companion set in a dusty bike shop, with Garrison Keillor in a faded, celeste Bianchi jersey.

Sometimes the stories were just too folksy, too Waltons for UK taste -- but most of the time he set a standard for thoughtful writing the rest of us can only aspire to. Maynard was by all accounts a useful racer in his time as well, and an official motorbike rider at several US events, including a spell piloting one of the yellow Service Des Courses Mavic motos.

Bizarrely, a short-lived UK edition of Winning was published -- with a few time trial results stuck in among the stories of the Coors Classic and, unforgivably, Maynard's column was clumsily rewritten in a hopeless attempt to make it sound British ("Last weekend, I came across a dead coyote by the side of the old fire-road in the hills above Milton Keynes").

Not long after, Winning itself folded and was absorbed into VeloNews, to which Maynard still occasionally contributes.

Anyway, stop reading this and go and read his blog instead.

Whiter Shade

2008-04-28T21:50:00.000+01:00

Sometimes, when I'm out riding and should be thinking hard about serious work or domestic-related matters, I find my mind wandering to the more esoteric reaches of bike culture semiotics.

Today was a case in point. What, I wondered, lies behind the increasing and mysterious popularity of white Assos kit?

Not as trivial a subject as you might think. Our choice of clothing, how we present ourselves to others, is never insignificant.

Before the Industrial Revolution, pale skin was a clear indicator of wealth or breeding. Relatively simple to decode, white hands and face said:

"I do not have to toil all day in fields under a boiling sun, or stoke fires in someone else's house." Fine clothes in delicate fabrics reinforced the message, but a milk-like complexion was the real giveaway.

Things changed of course, first with the arrival of factories and offices which took many of the working classes inside to labour; and later when the rich discovered summers on the Cote D'Azur and private yachts. A perfect tan announced that its owner was a person of leisure, an international jet-setter.

Package tours and St Tropez spray booths have disrupted that particular piece of symbolism, but the underlying principles still apply.

When I started cycling, shorts were black. The occasional coloured side-panel was tolerated but anything more guaranteed you the role of club laughing stock. I once turned up to a Sunday run wearing red Giordana tights (our jerseys were red and white) and the cruel Rudolf Nureyev jibes and Santa jokes continued for months.

The drawbacks of white -- or very pale -- cycling clothes are well known: they make you look fat and emphasise your privates.

Plus, on the simplest level -- you need somewhere to wipe your hands. When your chain comes off or you need to change a tyre, a pair of black shorts are very effective hand cleaners.

So the not-so hidden message of white Assos (and its marginally cheaper cousin white Castelli)?

"My bike is very expensive and very new. In the unlikely event of anything going wrong, I shall simply call a man to fix it. I have no intention of riding in the rain or getting a puncture. And anyway, I can afford to buy lots more new shorts at £90 a pop if these ones get dirty."

So now you know. Glad to be of service.

Dry Season

2008-04-24T08:59:00.000+01:00

I'm staying off the beer, in a half-hearted attempt to get my ailing body into some sort of shape. Still allowing myself the odd glass of wine with food.

There's no sense losing all proportion over this; and anyway, I've been heartened by reading "Sex Lies and Handlebar Tape", Paul Howard's intriguing biography of five-times Tour winner Jacques Anquetil.

Anquetil's colourful private life is now well-known, but is probably worth repeating. In as short a summary as I can manage:

He had an affair with his Doctor's wife, setting up home with her and her two young children.
When she proved unable to bear him a child of his own, he had one with her daughter -- who was by now a teenager.
He then lived with the two women and his new child in an unorthodox (no wonder the French have a word for it) menage a trois.
When this arrangement failed, he attempted to make his two former lovers jealous by having an affair with his stepson's wife, a relationship that continued until his death.

Chapeau, Maitre Jacques. Sunday lunch at the Anquetil house must have been a bit tense.

More interesting in some ways was his attitude to food and drink.

Anquetil had a reputation as a bit of a gourmand, horrifying traditionalists with his taste for seafood and creamy sauce. Howard suggests that some of it was pretence, done to wind up the press and opponents, but Cycling magazine looked aghast at his diet when he came to Herne Hill:

"Before his races ... Jacques ate hors d'oeuvres (sausages, meat, salad), sweetbreads in cream sauce with creamed spinach, and fresh fruit, and he drank spa water and coffee."

Sweetbreads in cream sauce? I was lucky to get some bread-and-butter pudding when I raced at Herne Hill.

And he was partial to a drop. After an all-night drive to one team training camp he sat down to a breakfast of langoustines with mayonnaise and a carafe of white wine. His famous quote about training is reproduced here in full. Asked by a young fan how best to prepare for a big race, he recommended:

"A pheasant with chestnuts, a bottle of champagne and a woman"

In particular, I like the fact that he was very specific about the food -- less so about the rest.

The book if full of interesting, almost incidental, asides that reveal the lost colour of pro-racing.

Among my favourites so far: Apo Lazarides, on a lone breakaway up the Col D'Izoard, stopped and waited for the peloton to catch up because he was frightened of being attacked by bears; Raphael Geminiani, angry at being left out of the French team for the Tour, turned up at a stage start with a donkey named after the selector Marcel Bidot.

Truly, it is the races that have got smaller.

Back to the Old School

2008-04-22T18:46:00.001+01:00

32 hole, Veloce hubs, DT stainless spokes, silver Open Pro rims. And, according to the rim tape, "personally approved by Monty Young". It's a long time since Monty was a permanent presence at Condors in the Grays Inn Road -- sitting at his ancient jig and creating perfect wheels. But his spirit is still there somewhere in the carbon and titanium high-money operation that his shop has become.

Monty made wheels for my father in 1949, and a set of track wheels for me that I raced for a season then rode into the ground over five years fixed-gear commuting on London roads.

Never had to use a spoke key once.

Best of all, these new ones were on special offer and less than the cost of a second-hand pair I'd been eyeing up on e-Bay

They'll be on the bike tonight and on the road tomorrow.

Pain and Humiliation

2008-04-19T14:37:00.000+01:00

At least once a week, I drive to a nondescript house in suburban South London, take off my clothes and pay an attractive young woman to inflict pain and humiliation on me.

In case you think this is some Max Mosely-style middle-aged sordidness, I should point out that these are visits to my osteopath -- a whippet-thin, sub-3.30 marathon runner with astonishingly strong hands and an ability to find the part which hurts the most and concentrate all her efforts on it, which suggests the CIA may have missed a trick by not recruiting her for Guantanamo duty.

I'm being treated for what I claim is a ski-ing injury to my shoulder, and what she says is the inevitable result of 20 years of poor posture, insufficient stretching and general laziness. Did I mention the humiliation?

I've written before about how pro-cyclists exist on the fine line dividing superfit athletes and physical wrecks. Even rank amateurs like me suffer for our sport -- overdeveloped calves and thighs, poor core strength and useless upper bodies.

There's an old bloke I sometimes see out on the road -- well into his seventies -- who has an impressive on-bike position over the drop bars of his modern carbon machine. Unfortunately, he maintains almost exactly the same position -- hunched forward, flat back and crouched legs-- when he gets off and walks into the cafe. Clearly his spine gave up on standing straight a few years ago. I have seen my future.

My own personal Ole Kaare Foli has so far not banned me from riding my bike. But she has insisted that I take regular breaks while riding to perform swivelling shoulder movements and dangle my right-arm loosely at my side like a chimp.

So if you see someone riding a red Casati round Richmond Park looking like Tarzan's Cheetah, give me a break. I need all the support I can get.

Wheel worries

2008-04-18T20:42:00.000+01:00

You remember that scene in Belleville Rendezvous when Grandma balances a racing wheel at the dinner table with the aid of a tuning fork and a scale model of the Eiffel Tower?

What do you mean, no? Go out and hire/buy it at once and refresh your memory.

Anyway, I've spent the last couple of days just like Mme Souza -- trying to get an annoying twitch out of my front Aksium. Modern factory wheels aren't quite as easy to tweak as traditional hoops, and it's been a thankless task.

And I'm starting to think that a set of old school 36-holers might be the ticket for Roubaix. I know that Aksiums - hardly the most glamourous wheelset but solid -- are supposed to be robust, but there's something unnerving to me about so few spokes.

Ridiculous, I know -- I'd be better off losing a few pounds off my own bulky frame and therefore putting less stress on the bike, but I feel an e-Bay bargain hunt coming on.

Bombproof 10 speed Campags on Open Pros anyone?

I've been bad...

2008-04-16T17:27:00.001+01:00

I've been rubbish, actually. At keeping up my training and this blog. When Brian Washingmachinepost kindly enquired how things were going, I realised that my e-mail reply wasn't much more than a list of excuses and moans.

I've moved house. Which has brought with it untold chaos, deep in cardboard boxes and paint-tins. Just finding the basics of life (clean cycling kit for instance) can take hours. Through a mixture of advanced planning and straightforward awkwardness -- my bike tools were kept out of the hands of the removals men and travelled with me in the car. However, our Hungarian decorator has taken to prising open paint-tins with my Campag cone-spanners.

Another bizarre result of moving is that -- for the first time in 20 years -- I've stopped reading The Comic. It used to be delivered every Thursday along with the paper, but no newsagents in our new part of South London actually deliver to your door. Too dangerous, probably. So far, I'm not missing it.

I'm trying to launch not one, but two new businesses:

www.parkinsonmedia.co.uk

www.thinkagainmedia.co.uk

...which is proving to be fascinating and exciting but massively time-consuming.

I've just been on holiday. The annual family ski-trip to one of my favourite parts of the world -- Northern Sweden. I'm not sure it's possible to become bored with powder snow, stunning mountain scenery and beautiful blonde women --- but if it could happen anywhere, Sweden would be the place. While Boonen was sprinting for victory at the Roubaix velodrome, I was dodging moose on the E6 back to the airport.

And I've picked up an injury -- an inflamed shoulder. According to my osteopath, a classic cyclist's problem -- decades of hunching over dropped bars have left my upper body so tight that a minor ski-ing knock has refused to heal -- there's almost no room in the joint for the muscles to recover. Nothing that a few sessions of expensive and painful bone-crunching won't fix.

And finally -- I forgot just how much I relied on commuting to keep my fitness up -- fifteen miles most days on fixed at least kept things ticking over. Now I'm working from home, it seems a real drag to have to get my kit on and get out on the road.

But that's enough whingeing. This afternoon, I put my To Do list to one side, stepped over the cardboard boxes and went for a ride.

And it felt very good. Watch out, Tom -- I'm back.

The bags are coming

2008-04-04T17:32:00.001+01:00

You know there's a major campaign right now against plastic bags? Well they're fighting back. Twice in one day I was attacked by a plastic bag while out cycling. Not the same plastic bag, obviously -- that would be too Doctor Who for words.

Different location, different times, different bikes. But same menace.

The first came as I rode my wife's commuting bike past a builder's skip and a five-yard tendril of bubble-wrap came looping out and tried to strangle me. I batted it off and it attempted to wrap itself round the front wheel instead. My wife's machine -- a bit like a Dutch-bike in design -- shrugged it off but it was a nasty moment.

Then, heading back from a run to Richmond Park, I spotted a huge, blue plastic bag in the middle of the road. It didn't move until I was about six feet from it, then it suddenly leaped across the road and enveloped me and my bike. In the space it took me to stop, it had become entangled in the rear wheel, the cassette, the right hand quick-release, the back brakes, the chainring and the left-hand pedal.

Much to the amusement of a nearby bus queue, it took me ten minutes to remove the blue monstrosity -- at one point I had to take off the back wheel and hang the rest of the bike on the fence while I pulled and struggled.

Two attacks in one day. Coincidence? I think not.

Cycling Saviour

2008-03-25T17:49:00.000Z

The last time I moved house, most of my belongings came with me -- on the back of my motorbike. The remainder -- a Colnago, three pairs of skis and an Amstrad PCW 9512 -- arrived in a borrowed estate car three days later.

This time -- moving house over the Easter weekend, it took a team of five Kiwis four days to load and unload two giant pantechnicons and our world now consists almost entirely of several hundred identical cardboard boxes.

In a link with the past, however, my Casati came separately -- ridden the half-mile between old and new.

We have moved into a rambling Gothic monstrosity which a colleague likened to something out of ScoobyDoo but the essentials of modern living -- broadband, digital TV, dishwasher etc., have slowly been reconnected.

Training opportunities have been limited, not helped by the unpredictable weather -- apart from one early morning blast down to Richmond Park. Half an hour rummaging in the boxes turned up wildly inappropriate summer shorts and jersey, but the addition of leg-warmers and an Assos climajet made it bearable.

Once again, it demonstrated cycling's ability to revive -- dare I say resurrect -- flagging body and spirit. Workmen are digging up Sawyer's Hill, so the long drag up to Richmond Gate has been reclaimed by cyclists and deer -- both safe from motorised oppression. A family of deer were standing in the middle of the road as I crested the hill; they looked -- startled -- in my direction then turned away, convinced that this slow-moving, bright blue creature was no threat.

Three laps then back to the boxes with a renewed vigour. Oh, and the Aga is great for drying damp riding gear.

Back to earth

2008-03-11T22:04:00.000Z

Just back from four days in the Alps, ski-ing with a testosterone-fuelled Dads' Army from my youngest son's school. It revealed one unfortunate truth -- despite all the miles of pedalling, my legs aren't quite as strong as I hoped they were. At least one flat out, top-to-bottom run had my thighs screaming for mercy long before the final turn.

We spent one day gloriously off-piste, far away from the crowds and the lifts but some of the time we were faced with one of the great hazards of modern ski-ing -- high-speed motorway madness. It was like London rush-hour with rubbish brakes, and at the end of the first day I went and bought a -- rather cool -- Giro helmet to ease my shredded nerves.

Back to work today and the madness of the real London rush hour. I pulled up to the lights in Sloane Square and a black cab driver rolled down his side window to speak to me. I feared the worst, but his intentions were good.

"Watch out for the bloke behind," he said "He's on the 'phone and not looking where he's going -- nearly had a cyclist off back there".

I thanked him and pointed out that, in the past twenty minutes, I'd seen three people texting as they drove along. We grumbled together about the deteriorating standards of London driving for a couple of minutes until the lights changed.

Need to get training again soon. Ski-ing's alright -- but you don't get big legs sitting at a computer.

Bargain wool

2008-03-05T16:55:00.000Z

Finisterre are a small British surf clothing company, a million miles from the fluorescent glamour of the big multi-national "surf" fashion brands that fill high streets all over the world.

They make superb garments for the cold, wet and windy reality of North European surfing: good designs, excellent fabric, no giant logos. They share some of the design philosophy of Rapha in cycling, and the eco-consciousness of another favourite brand of mine -- Patagonia.

I've got a couple of Finisterre products -- including an unbelievably warm and weatherproof fleece, which is apparently an established favourite with lifeboat crews.

What's this got to do with cycling? They're about to launch a range of merino base layers at a very attractive price. 25 notes for a well-made, well designed bit of kit -- the thinking behind it is on their blog and worth reading.

Order two, they're nice people.

Utterly gratuitous picture of Vicky Pendleton

2008-03-02T22:24:00.000Z

And how many of you noticed that on the double-page inside photo she was wearing black trainer socks? Photo-shopped out for the cover? Not that we're obsessive or anything.

Great training weather in the South today -- bright and clear, a bit windy, but a real feel of Spring.

Coming up short

2008-02-27T17:31:00.000Z

I'm old enough that when I started cycling the chamois inserts in shorts were genuinely made from goats.

Thin, unpadded ovals; they were wonderfully soft and absorbent in the shop and for the first ride, but washing gave them the consistency and feel of coarse-grade sandpaper.

To make it wearable, you had to grasp the insert with both hands and scrub like a demented Victorian washerwoman; then apply "chamois cream", a thick yellow gunk which just gave it the feel of sandpaper covered in axle grease.

Unsurprisingly, there seemed to be more cases of saddle sores, infections and the dreaded boils in those days; and you sympathised with those old-school pro's who would begin the day with a sirloin steak stuffed beneath their privates, ride a 200-mile stage and then fling the flattened, seasoned cut of meat to the hotel chef to prepare for that night's dinner.

Decent artificial chamois brought an end to all that, of course, and the reduction in cyclist-groin-to-animal-product-interaction has been one of the many improvements I've seen in cycling over the past twenty years.

But my increasing mileage in preparation for June has highlighted some, er, shortcomings in my shorts department -- and I've had to take action.

I've ordered a new pair of Assos F1's -- suspiciously cheap off of that Ebay; and bought a tub of the same company's pricey new-age bum butter.

It's certainly a different product to the chamois cream of thirty years ago -- lightly perfumed and with the consistency of an expensive moisturiser. Rather disturbingly, it warns "avoid intimate areas" -- how does that work, then?

Initial impressions are favourable -- despite an unexpected warming sensation on first application. Lance Armstrong apparently recommends some product used by American farmers on their cows' udders -- but I think I'll stick with the Swiss variety.

I'll keep you updated. Although, obviously, not in too much detail.

Victoria's Secret

2008-02-25T11:38:00.001Z

The latest Observer Sports Monthly -- due this Sunday -- looks like becoming a collector's edition. The cover features triple world champion and prime British Beijing medal hope Victoria Pendleton -- stark naked on a bike, in tasteful homage to Lance Armstrong's 1999 Vanity Fair pose.

I predict that this weekend will see pathetic scenes being played out across the UK.

Middle-aged men whose weekend routines do not normally include the reading of a Sunday paper will gather in furtive groups outside newsagents, waiting for them to open. They will seize copies of the Observer and rush to the privacy of their homes where they will tear the sports supplement from its plastic covering and feast their eyes on the loveliness thereon.

Within minutes, obsessive cries will issue from bedrooms across the land:

"Is that a Madone 6.5? I would have thought they could have stretched to a 6.9, myself -- or preferably used a Litespeed or something, although I suppose the Trek is meant as an Armstrong tribute -- and what are those wheels? Bontragers? They could have upgraded to a pair of Zipps at the very least, or some Lightweights. What cowboy put the bar tape on like that? It won't last five minutes. And the bars are at the wrong angle anyway. I wish she'd move her leg, I can't see what seatpost they've fitted....."

Sad, but you know it's true.

The Slippery Slope

2008-02-24T13:19:00.000Z

I've always been a sock purist. Short, plain and white -- the only only acceptable covering for a cyclist's lower leg.

However, I have been tempted from the paths of purity and righteousness by a rather fetching item from someone calling himself "The Sock Guy". Bright yellow "Lion of Flanders" socks -- how could you resist?

Luckily, they aren't available in the UK at the moment -- Wiggle claim to sell them, but they're not in stock.

So I turned for my pressing sock needs to Prendas -- planning to buy a couple of plain white pairs to keep me going. Temptation loomed in the form of some stylish Italian champion tricolores, and some Belgian ones done out in red, black and yellow and the slogan "Biere, Frites et Merckx".

Reader, I succumbed. They're still short -- and mainly white -- but I fear it may be the first step on a road which leads to the ultimate shame -- calf-length, black Lance-a-likes.

Lovely day today. My legs came out for the first time this year, along with my summer-weight blue Dauphin kit (Hello, girls!).

Spring may be just over the horizon.