Just what I always wanted

Matt Seaton wrote entertainingly in the Guardian this week about Christmas and cyclists -- specifically about buying presents for your cycling significant other. In paraphrase, his point is "don't bother". Cyclists are devious, capricious and selfish. If they haven't already got a cycling-related object, they probably don't want it. If they do want it, they've probably already bought it for themselves -- and lied to you about how much it cost.

He's probably right, although there are some things that few cyclists would turn down if they were found in their stockings. With the weather turning icy in London this past week, my thoughts have been turning to an Assos jacket -- perhaps the Airblock 851, or even the outrageously expensive FuguJack. Incidentally, is the name FuguJack a Fuentes-style reference to Tony Rominger's dog, or a rare example of the world-famous Swiss humour?

And Rapha's pink, chain-print kit bag is so utterly wrong it's completely right.

Campagnolo's full toolkits are hard to find but still the holy grail for spanner-monkeys everywhere. I've already got all the Campag tools I need -- the others in the kit are either obsolete or only relevant if you're pressing twenty headsets a day -- but who wouldn't want the polished wood box as a workshop centrepiece?

You can't go wrong with socks -- no cyclist ever has enough - as long as they're short and white, with no pretence at coloured faux-pro or, heaven forbid, long and black like Armstrong.

Slightly more left-field, how about scouring E-bay for a musette or two? Always useful rolled up in your jersey pocket for those last-minute on the road purchases. Tim Hilton recommends carrying a musette to store edible road kill -- in his book "One more kilometre and we're in the showers", he talks fondly of pedalling home from a country run with a still-warm hare on his back.

Incidentally, if you've never read Tim's book, do so immediately. It's eccentric, discursive and hugely enjoyable -- every page packed with a love of bikes and life.

Francophones should check out the Caverne Du Sport for old copies of Miroir Cyclisme and the like. Even if you don't speak French, the photos and adverts are wonderfully atmospheric.

And finally, how about some home-made recycled bike trinkets? The Nuovo Record key-ring was sourced from my parts bin, but the classic pie-crust levers are cheap and plentiful through E-bay or bike jumbles. A bit of solder and some silver wire and your significant cyclist could be sporting a fetching pair of lightweight earrings.

Just Like Beppe's

I've never been a big one for bike porn. Top end bikes long ago passed the point at which I will ever be able to afford one; and modern machines are so brutally functional they no longer lift my heart the way a handmade Reynolds or Columbus frame once could. Those articles towards the back of the glossies, where a recently retired pro rides the latest carbon extravagance someplace photogenic, have my eyes glazing over in seconds.

Even if I could afford one, I'd be terrified to ride it. Earlier this year, I took my son to the Manchester Velodrome to watch the Track World Cup. A hugely enjoyable weekend, enlivened by the occasional spectacular crash. As body after body piled into the pine-work, I watched horrified as carbon frames splintered into very small, very expensive pieces. At least with my bikes, there's a fighting chance of unbending or rebrazing them if I drop one.

But one star of this year's bike shows captured my imagination like nothing else - and just to make sure there's no escape, it features in an advert in this week's comic.

Ernesto Colnago's 2007 take on the classic Master is a thing of beauty. In the deep red, white and chrome that Beppe Saronni rode to such effect at Goodwood in '82; the whole thing is designed to make old men go weak at the knees. And it's steel; cared for properly it will last a lifetime.

For me, it would be a rekindling of an old love -- tinged with regret. In the mid-eighties, I was a regular at Ken Bird's shop in Crystal Palace. Every week, I would gaze longingly at the wine-red Colnago frame hanging in his window until the temptation proved too much -- I stuffed a bundle of notes into Ken's hand and went home, proud owner of a genuine Italian superbike.

I built it up over a couple of weeks, scrounging most parts off my previous bike -- a 531c Raleigh; buying some new bits from Whiskers in Willesden and making one early Sunday morning dash to Paolo Garbini's in Soho, to make sure I could sneak in and buy some cables when he opened the shop before the club run.

I remember the sense of pride on its first outing (to be honest, it rode no better than the Raleigh); the way the chrome winked in the sun; and the howls of derision from clubmates when the brakes squealed.

I kept that Colnago for years, until the combined pressures of a growing family and the Inland Revenue forced me to sell it.

Although the new Master is "reasonably" priced (less than £1k for the frameset), I don't think it will be finding a home chez Flandrian any time soon. But I'd have it any day over its flashier, carbon cousins.

The Story So Far Pt. 2

Apologies to anyone who was looking forward to a review of dynamo lighting systems or more baseless speculation about pro riders' genitalia.

Instead, I thought I'd explain more about the core purpose of this blog -- to document the attempt by an overweight, under-trained, near fifty-year old to ride Paris-Roubaix, or at least the amateur sportive which runs over the same course as the classic race.

This late mid-life crisis was brought on by the realisation that half-a-century is a far more significant birthday than any previous one; and by a near-fatal illness that reminded me that putting things off until tomorrow is a privilege, not a right.

A Friday night in early 2007, sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of wine, I suddenly felt a bizarre, tingling paralysis in my neck and back, followed by a blinding headache and nausea. My wife had the presence of mind to call NHS Direct, who in turn called an ambulance which took me to the local hospital. Friday night in an inner-city A&E -- as a random headache case I wasn't a priority, until a spectacular vomiting fit convinced a doctor to see me in a side room.

It turned out that I'd had a subarachnoid brain haemorrhage -- a frightening condition which kills and cripples thousands each year. A week of tests and investigations produced a remarkably positive prognosis -- I would be one of the minority of sufferers who makes a full - or almost full - recovery.

I came back from hospital very different from the person who went in. Two years before, I had run a marathon -- now I could barely walk a hundred yards unaided. Leg and back pain -- apparently caused by blood leaving my brain via the nervous system -- meant that I couldn't sit on a bike, let alone pedal it.

But the bike was to prove vital in my recovery. A friend lent me his turbo trainer and I set it up next to my bed. Five minutes at a time at first, then longer and longer, until one day I was able to take the bike out of the front door and wobble down the road.

Even later, the same friend drove me to Richmond Park with my bike in the boot of the car. As I made the glorious freewheel down to Robin Hood Gate, I knew I was really on the way back.

As occupational therapy, I built a new bike. Oddly, the brain which struggled to remember simple daily tasks and refused to focus on reading, had no problems fine-tuning a ten-speed Campagnolo mech or installing a Chris King headset.

Five months later, my next door neighbour invited me to ride London to Brighton with him -- exactly twenty years after I last did it as a relatively fit club rider.

I made it up Ditchling Beacon: a few extra inches on my waist, a couple of extra teeth on the back cog, but otherwise unbowed.

As we sat on the prom, contemplating the sea over a couple of pints, my neighbour asked if I had any other rides planned.

"Oh, I don't know" I heard myself saying, full of sea air and lager "I've always fancied having a crack at Paris-Roubaix".

You pays your money

Speaking of Assos and Rapha, both brands get a mixed reaction in the online cycling community. It doesn't help that they're the go-to brands of the "more-money-than-sense" brigade. Rapha's marketing is stylish but sometimes tries too hard, and their occasional excesses (did anyone actually buy their £130 Riders Log?), add to the suspicion that someone is having a laugh at our expense.

And expense is the big issue with Assos -- received wisdom says good quality but way overpriced - and no longer "Handmade in Switzerland".

Credit where it's due, however -- and recent weeks have restored my faith in both brands.

Last year, I bought a Rapha Softshell Jacket in a sale at VeloRution -- reduced from laughably expensive to extremely expensive. I wore it a few times through the Spring but wasn't over-impressed. However, since the temperature dropped a while ago, it's become an essential element of my daily riding. It fits well: is warm, comfortable and showerproof and has some great features. It's also one of the few items of cycling kit -- actually the only one -- that attracts compliments from non-bikies off the bike. For winter commuting, worth its weight in gold -- which to be fair is probably not far off the recommended retail. And the Rapha winter hat is a godsend as well -- keeping my ears warm and the spray out of my eyes, while still lending me a faint air of Roger de Vlaeminck. You'd almost think it was worth 35 quid.

I also bought -- in another sale -- an Assos Climajet rainjacket. I first used it for commuting and wasn't immediately convinced. It felt restrictive, rode up annoyingly under my bag and made me sweat on mild, wet days. I've been using a much cheaper jacket from Endura, a birthday present from Mrs Flandrian.

But this morning, the heavens opened as I left Richmond Park and the Climajet suddenly made sense. A snug fit over my racing kit, the freezing rain just bounced off it -- and I arrived home half an hour later dry and comfortable apart from soaked, icy shoes.

Good design, good materials, fit for purpose -- I guess you can't get them on the cheap.

As I left the Roehampton Gate Cafe this morning, I noticed an old couple outside who I've seen quite a few times. He's in his sixties, trim and fit with a white beard and a lovely old Witcomb fixed. She's of similar age, riding a well-kept hybrid.

I took my rain-jacket from my pocket as the first drops of rain fell, and heard him say:

"Oh look, that feller's caping up -- we'd better not be too long".

Caping up. What a lovely phrase from a bye-gone era.

More of that lost charm can be found on a film from the golden days of British cycling, recommended by the excellent washingmachinepost blog.