Back to the Old School

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.

 

 

Wheel worries

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...

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.

Coming up short

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.

 

Hell of the Surrey Hills

The forecasts were for a Siberian Armageddon -- knee-deep snowdrifts and temperatures down to minus 17.  Well, some of the forecasts - mainly those used by some of the online news services. The Met Office, which supplies the BBC, was more cautious -- but there would definitely be snow.

Which wasn't an auspicious start to the first serious ride of the year - a planned 50 miles through the hills of Surrey.  

We were following a Cycling Plus route which shared some of the same terrain as the excellent Serpentine Three Hills Ride.  

I had visions of us ending the ride looking like Andy Hampsten in the '88 Giro.

Out of the car-park at Westhumble station, low grey skies but no sign of the impending blizzards. For the next 30 miles, not more than a few yards were flat.  Box Hill, Leith Hill, Ranmore Common -- I felt like I was pedaling squares up the hills.  When I dared look at the heart rate monitor, it was bouncing around the 160 mark -- so much for my training programme.

And it was cold.  Bitter, soul-sapping cold through two thermal vests, and two jackets.  Only briefly helped by a corned-beef sandwich and mug of coffee outside the cyclist-friendly Peaslake Village Stores.

We cut short the ride at under 40 miles just as a light snow began to fall.  By the time we reached the station again, it had turned to drizzle.

January can be a hard month to be a cyclist. 

Details, details

An e-mail has flooded in.

Steve Clarke writes, via the Washing Machine Post, as a three-times veteran of Paris-Roubaix. He calls it 168 miles of hell - hard, long and dangerous -- which is just the sort of encouragement I'm looking for.

There's plenty of practical advice as well: ride the cobbles as fast as you can; double wrap the bars in gel-tape; keep it in the big ring -- the chain's less likely to come off; and fit Vittoria's 24mm Pave clinchers -- which sound like a good bet when my Conti GP3000's wear out.

But then he says "don't use your best bike -- you'll be too worried about crashing and damaging it". I only have three bikes: a spindly track machine that glares accusingly at me because it never gets taken out of the cellar; the Condor Tempo that I use for work and winter training (Paris-Roubaix on a 68 fixed? I don't think so) And my "best" bike -- a five year old steel Casati with carbon forks and Campag running gear.

It'll have to do -- although I'm uncertain about the wheels.

Mavic Aksiums are good, i.e. reasonably priced and solid -- training hoops, but I'm old school enough to worry that factory built wheels will never match the sheer bomb-proofness of a set of Open Pros tied and soldered by a proper wheelwright.

So that's another thing to lose sleep over for the next few months.

The book arrived today. "Go slower to get faster" says the back page blurb. What's not to love?

How did we get here again?

So, to recap: a careless remark to my neighbour after the relatively gentle 56 miles between London and Brighton and it was all decided.

Less than 18 months after a life-threatening illness which had left me unable to walk more than a few steps, I was going to ride one of the world’s hardest bike events. On a training regime that, until now, consisted entirely of commuting through London traffic and a weekly, half-hearted spin round Richmond Park.

While it was hardly Lance Armstrong rising from his cancer ward to conquer the Tour de France, some training was clearly in order. And the only worthwhile training is specific training –something which would prepare me for a long, flat endurance event in the company of thousands of other riders over cobbled roads.

So I entered the Catford Hill Climb.

The Catford Hill Climb likes to bill itself as the world’s oldest bike race which, with some qualifications, is true. Strictly, it’s the competitive cycling event which has been run uninterrupted for the most years – but that wouldn’t look quite as snappy on the posters.

It’s organised by the Catford CC, one of England’s oldest cycling clubs and is held each year on the North Downs of Kent. “The Catford” as they are known, were formed in 1886 and, a year later, came up with the bright idea of staging a hill climbing competition near Westerham. Given the weight of Victorian bikes (at least 35lbs) and the rudimentary gearing, it was a miracle anyone got to the top at all. As it was, barely half of the 24 starters survived the course; but the event was clearly judged a success because it’s been an annual fixture ever since, on a variety of increasingly unpleasant inclines.

Since 1939, the Catford have settled on Yorks Hill, near Sevenoaks, which starts off innocuously enough before rearing up to a vicious 1-in-4 before the finish line. The course is around 700 yards long and the record stands at a shade over 1-minute 47seconds.

I still don’t understand the thought process which led me to think that this would in any way contribute to my being able to ride from Paris to Roubaix, but it was the only event I could contemplate entering at that stage. Yes, I was a couple of stone overweight; yes, I was a rubbish climber, but at least the agony would be over in a few minutes.

How wrong I was.

Welcome to the 21st Century

Curses! Looks like I might have to ride from Paris to Roubaix after all. I was hoping that -- after an Xmas stuffing myself with turkey, pudding and Newcastle Brown -- I might have a couple of tentative stabs at long rides then give up quietly, sneaking my bike back to the cellar and putting my feet up.

But Brian -- at the consistently entertaining Washing Machine Post -- has come up with some 21st Century multi-platform, social media shiznit that won't let me off the hook that easily.

First, he's told everyone on his blog about my plans. Then, he's recommended that I buy a book that will help build my base fitness level via heart-rate monitors, exertion levels, interval training etc.

I've got a heart-rate monitor somewhere, a relic of my marathon running days, but I've never been exactly scientific when it comes to training. I've always trained by "feel", loosely translated as riding a bit until I'm puffed and stopping for a cake -- which is probably why I'm so ludicrously slow.

If you've ever seen the film Overcoming -- you'll remember two things. First, the implacable physio Ole Kaare Føli, and his valiant efforts to stop Bjarne Riis's big bald head from imploding under terrifying stress levels. Second, poor old Carlos Sastre -- CSC's loveable Spanish nearly-man -- as he struggles in an unequal relationship with his power meter.

"I think maybe computer is more f*****ng clever than me" is his considered verdict, and I sympathise.

But it's time I moved into the modern world, so as soon as the book arrives I'll be mapping out a proper plan and doing intervals till my face turns blue.

Brian's training for London to Paris, I'm training for Paris-Roubaix -- we'll be comparing notes across the blogosphere.

I have a horrible suspicion that there's no going back now.

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".

Legs of the Gods

There are few things more strikingly stylish, sexy even, than a good pro-cyclist in full flow on his bike. Look at film of Fausto Coppi, surely one of the most stylish sportsmen ever, as his long, delicate legs spin him over a col; the terrifying force of nature that was Bernard Hinault – compact, powerful and aggressive, face set in a mask of anger and determination as he swept all opposition and obstacles aside; the incomparable Mario Cipollini, “the Lion King” super-fast, super-brave sprinter with the looks of a Mediterranean playboy and a flamboyant line in lycra fashion statements – pink, gold, zebra print, and – on one particularly memorable occasion, a one-piece suit made to look as though his skin had been flayed off, leaving his muscles on full view. Race officials would routinely shake their heads and punish him for infringing this or that clothing regulation and “Cipo” would smilingly pay their fine, toss his long golden locks and ride into the sunset with a podium girl on his crossbar.




Above all, watch Francesco Moser in “A Sunday in Hell”, Jorgen Leth’s legendary film about the 1976 Paris- Roubaix. Bent double at the waist, his back is ramrod-straight, perfectly still and parallel with the ground as his legs flow seemingly effortlessly in perfect circles. Then take a look at pro-riders, even lowly domestiques , before the start of races, as they glide and jink their bikes through the crowds of photographers, officials and hangers-on; relaxed and smooth, never braking, never making a wasteful movement – like so many shiny fish in a shoal, constant speed, constant flow – as though their machines are simply an extension of their bodies, or their bodies an extension of their machines. Their bikes, shoes, and clothing shine with an unnatural Technicolor glow, rivalled only by the impossibly deep, teak tans of their shaved, oiled and chiselled legs; awheel, a pro-cyclist is a brightly coloured God among men.


There are exceptions, of course. There were many reasons to dislike climber and French housewives’ favourite Richard Virenque – chief among them that he was a petulant cheat who denied drug use again and again, until the evidence was overwhelming and then tried to blame everyone but himself for his sins. But much of the vitriol aimed his way was undoubtedly because, well – he just didn’t look right on a bike. He was once described as resembling a frog on a matchbox, only slightly unfair, and a reasonable approximation of his cramped, ugly riding style.


And Floyd Landis, “winner” of the 2006 Tour, had already been deducted points by European fans for his charmless beard, backwards baseball caps and agricultural riding position long before any questions were raised about the honesty of his performances.



The bizarre, contradictory thing is this. Off their bikes, even the most stylish looking riders transform into freaks. Bodies which look natural, admirable, on bikes become ungainly, misshapen – like some ghastly laboratory experiment gone wrong. Massive legs, with sinewed calves and gargantuan thighs are joined to spindly, concave chests, skeletal shoulders and arms which would look under-developed on a frail schoolgirl. A traditional pre-Tour photo opportunity shows riders being given medical checks by the race Doctor. For this, they are required to strip off and have a stethoscope applied to their chests, or a rubber hammer swung theatrically at their kneecaps. The resulting pictures are not for the faint-hearted. Deeply suntanned faces, arms and legs frame milk-white sunken chests and exposed ribs; the skin stretched so paper-thin across their backs that one pro’s wife complained she could clearly see and feel the outlines of her husband’s internal organs. Away from their bikes, cyclists have a haunted, consumptive look, their movements are disjointed and their upper bodies are under-developed and frail, every unnecessary ounce of muscle above the waist is simply an extra burden to drag up hills or into the wind.


Even the ultra-stylish Fausto Coppi could look ungainly off his Bianchi – no amount of Italian knitwear, sports jackets and gold-rimmed sunglasses could disguise a faint resemblance to Mr Bean. Cycling though is all about hearts and legs. The Spanish five-times tour winner Miguel Indurain was reputed to have a heart twice the size of a normal human, and lungs so big they ballooned out below his ribcage.


And legs. Gnarled, distended lower limbs are a badge of pride among pros – the uglier the better. Sean Yates, the British super domestique who completed nine Tours De France, spent a glorious day in yellow and became one of Lance Armstrong’s most trusted lieutenants has a pair of legs so disfigured by varicose veins that they frighten small children. When racing, he would roll his shorts all the way up his thighs, like an old-fashioned bathing costume, to avoid the dreaded cyclists’ tan lines – an odd affectation for this least affected of men. No-one dared tell him that the tan lines were the least problematic aspect of his legs’ appearance.

The Road to Hell

A word or two about cobbles. To the uninitiated, they bring to mind the faux-Dickensian charm of the English market town or the classic chic of a quiet Parisian quartier. These are not the cobbles of Paris-Roubaix. The Flemish farmers who built many of these roads were unconcerned with aesthetics and style; they simply wanted to drive their carts from one place to another, but for much of the year the tracks were muddy and impassable. So they laid substantial bricks of granite, roughly the size of a family loaf, in loosely connected patterns, just close enough to ease the passage of an animal or a steel-rimmed wooden cartwheel.


The first such roads in this area were built by the Romans, although you imagine their efforts may have been more uniform and stylish. And some others date from the heyday of the mining industry, whose remnants litter the area - disused shafts, slag heaps, rusting machinery. The cobbled tracks were buckled, beaten and distorted by coal trucks, some pulled by animals, some by gangs of men and boys. Emile Zola’s great socialist novel Germinal is set in the mining village of Mareciennes, on the edge of the Arenberg Forest where today’s racers get their first taste of the real Roubaix cobbles. Germinal paints a grim picture of life, suffering and death in the nineteenth-century mines; existence in this region has never been easy.

Cobbled roads were relatively simple to build and maintain, but their days were numbered after the invention of Tarmac in the mid 19th-century. This mixture of tar and stone chippings, developed by the Scottish engineer John McAdam, was easy to apply, waterproof, smooth and grippy – even in the wet. It was the perfect platform for that other 19th-century invention – the internal combustion engine. Together, they revolutionised the world. As motor vehicles spread across Europe, so cobbled and dirt roads disappeared under their black sticky nemesis.

Apart from the rural backwoods of Northern France, where few saw the need to spend hard-earned francs improving roads which were lightly used – and then only by cattle, tractors and the odd farm truck. And wasn’t that symbol of French practicality, the Citroen 2CV, blessed with suspension specifically designed for just such surfaces? While the main routes between towns and villages increasingly became smooth streams of tarmac, on the back roads, the cobble stayed King.

The Rouleur

In my dreams, I am a Rouleur, the unglamorous, unsung workhorse of cycle racing.

The big man who sits on the front; braving the wind and rain and the flat Northern landscapes, dragging the pack down die-straight Roman-built roads until the weak fall from the back.

When I go riding with my neighbour Steve, we make an unlikely pair. He is short and slight, built like a jockey, or the flyweight boxer he once was. Faced with a hill, he stays seated and simply spins his legs a little faster, his lightweight aluminium bike gliding up the gradient as though glued to an asphalt elevator.

I don’t glide.

I’ve never asked Steve about his two-wheeled fantasies, like most cyclists our conversations tend towards the dour and pragmatic, but I imagine he sometimes fancies himself as a summer hero of the Alpine cols. Perhaps Federico Bahamontes, the Eagle of Toledo, whose climbing ability once put him so far ahead of his rivals that he waited at the top of an Alp in the Tour De France, eating an ice-cream, so he didn’t have to make the descent on his own. Or Robert Millar, the eccentric, fragile Scot, still the highest placed Briton in the Tour, who won the red-and-white spotted jersey of the King of the Mountains three times. Even Marco Pantani, “the Pirate”, big-eared and tiny-framed, an Italian mountain specialist who came back from terrible injuries to take on and beat the mighty Lance Armstrong, only to squander his life and talent on cocaine and paranoia – dead in a Rimini motel room at the age of 34. The cocktail of triumph, tragedy, bravery and romance that draws thousands to professional bike racing is easily encapsulated in the frail figure of the climber.

Nearly six feet tall and fourteen stone, I was never going to be a climber, and I have never had the wild-eyed recklessness and brutal aggression of the finish-line sprinter. But in my dreams I could be a rouleur, a flahute, a Flanders hard-man.

At the Tour De France, the big men spend much of their time in the so-called Autobus. By the time the Tour reaches the mountains, this group of heavier, slower riders hang behind the leading racers; one wheel ahead of the Voiture Balai, the minibus with a symbolic broom strapped to its roof, which sweeps up those who’ve decided enough is enough. Someone in their number will calculate mile-by-mile, how slowly they can ride yet still finish within the time limit for disqualification.

By this time, they will already have had their hour in the sun – some will have dropping back to the support car to pick up drinks or extra clothes for him, then fought their way to the front and held their course in the fifty-mile-an-hour dashes to the line, elbows out, nostrils flaring, heads down, which characterise the early stages of the Tour. Some will have babysat their team leader, sheltering him from the wind, straining and sprinting to catch back up.

Others will have spent their time watching rival teams as the peloton picked its nervous way through the early stages, ready to wind up the pace and smash opponents’ resolve; chase down those unwise enough to break away and go for glory; or set off themselves on madcap solo efforts, in a small break of riders doomed to be caught by the finish line but still happy if their sponsors’ jerseys get some prime time TV coverage, and their own names come to the attention of the team managers, the all-powerful Directeurs Sportifs

But for a few, their lives flourish not around the Grand Tours of Summer, but the Classics – the one day races of Spring and Autumn, on flatter roads, in unpredictable weather, when the great cols and alps are impassable and covered in snow. When the wind howls uninterrupted from the North Sea and the roads are wheel-rim deep in the mixture of rainwater, mud, agricultural chemicals and cowshit that American riders christened Flemish Toothpaste.

The Ronde Van Vlanderen - the Tour of Flanders; Ghent-Wevelgem; Liege-Bastogne-Liege; the Het Volk and Amstel Gold – harsh, brutal races in harsh, brutal landscapes. But the Queen of them all remains Paris-Roubaix.

The story so far

It was a pair of eyes that started it. That began my obsession. They were streaked with red, blank with pain and despair, not the eyes of a sportsman. The face they stared from was coated with dirt, blood and spittle; the brows were caked and ghostly.

I’d seen such eyes in photographs before: in the faces of frontline soldiers after days of battle and nights without sleep; rescue workers after hours scrabbling through rubble; miners back on the surface after ten hours struggling at the peculiar hell of a coal face. Never on a man who rode a pushbike for a living.

The eyes were focused far away. Somewhere back down the road – kilometres of bone-snapping, teeth-rattling dirt and cobbles; the farm roads of Northern France, which grind down, then batter and break, men and their fragile machines.

The owner of the face, and those eyes, was no ordinary bike rider, in no ordinary race. He was Sean Kelly, the hard man’s hard man, an Irish farm boy who converted his unique talent into Continental superstardom. His unique talent was suffering – longer and harder than anyone else. And he was riding Paris-Roubaix, otherwise known as L’Enfer Du Nord, the Hell of the North, Queen of the Classics – the world’s toughest bike race. What one leading race organiser accurately called “the last trace of madness in modern cycling.”

I saw that photograph more than 20 years ago, and I’ve been hooked ever since.