Pain and Humiliation

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.

The bags are coming

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

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.

The Man in Black

Freezing fog in Richmond Park this morning, an unexpected downer after days of clear blue skies.  

Halfway up the hill that leads to Richmond Gate, a police car was parked on the roadway -- doors open and a WPC standing alongside.  She took the opportunity to shout at me, berating my stupidity.  Given that I was grinding my way up a long hill on a fixed gear, she had quite a bit of time to express her opinions.  She was a bit like one of those mad Dutch fans on Alpe D'Huez, only slightly less encouraging.

"Oi, you!  Perhaps you should consider getting some lights on your bike!  Or maybe wearing a yellow jacket or something on your top?  'Cos you're not very visible in this weather, are you?  Just a little tip.  Bit of friendly advice, might stop you getting killed...."

And on she went.

In reply, I just waved in a friendly fashion and said "Thank you, officer!"  Partly because I was so short of breath that I didn't feel like engaging in longer discourse.  And partly, of course, because she was right.

I'd left my lights on the hall table -- it was daylight outside, after all.  And I was wearing my Rapha softshell -- highly commended for style and comfort, nuls points for its hi-viz police-friendliness. 

I skulked round for another few laps, chastened -- while idiots in cars with no lights hurtled past inches from me.  I met up with a club-mate, resplendent in our bright red and yellow winter kit and used her as a human shield from the half-blind four-wheelers.

I always use lights at night, and try to dress conspicuously - within reason -  but I'm not 100 percent convinced how much difference it makes.  At its worst, visibility today was down to a couple of hundred yards.  If you can't see another human being -- even one dressed all in black --- at that distance, you really shouldn't be out on the roads. 

Some of the drivers who went past today were engrossed in hand-held mobile conversations, one was texting.  It's a given that WPC Plod won't have shouted at them.

After 30 years of riding in London, I remain convinced that confident road positioning and speed are as important to your safety as bright clothing. 

To be honest, you could have lit yourself like a Christmas tree today, with a roman candle up your jacksie, and still not guaranteed that you were seen.

Let's be careful out there.

Trust me on this one

In a month or two, I am leaving my employer of the last 28 years and setting off into the uncharted waters of self-employment.   I find myself spending an unhealthy amount of time thinking up bizarre business schemes which will make me the next Bill Gates.

Many of these flashes of brilliance come to me on the bike: which is either vindication of the claim that exercise clears your mind of excess distractions and allows your elemental free-thinking soul to flourish; or evidence of oxygen starvation -- which leads the brain to think that rubbish ideas are better than they are.

I had one this morning.  

A clear, cold but very windy day in the South-East -- I was just finishing a session in Richmond Park when the lightbulb came on. 

Coming off the long descent to Robin Hood Gate, I spotted a lovely old gitanes-blue Citroen 2CV a hundred yards ahead.  I put on a half-hearted sprint, caught up with it and, for the next mile or so, sat in behind.  It was bliss.  Cruising along at the legal limit, hardly turning a pedal, the spluttering, air-cooled engine of the Citroen sounding like a giant Derny.  

The driver, clearly unnerved by the gurning idiot in her rear view mirror, tried to speed up - but even I can keep up with a 2CV on the flat.  

My riding companion compared it to  having your own personal super-domestique -- like being towed along by a big, blue Sean Yates.

And that's when it struck me.  Get a couple of 2CV's, and hang round well-heeled bikie's haunts -- Richmond Park, Box Hill, Crystal Palace parade etc.  Offer, for a substantial fee, to pace groups of city boys on their training runs. 

Just think, boys, now no-one needs to take a turn on the front!  Or read a map -- just ask the driver for whatever's required -- "A hilly 65k, sir? I've got just the thing.  Tuck in behind, and follow me". 

The drivers would, of course, be competent mechanics with tools and spares in the back -- to aid the suprising number of riders you come across with £4k carbon bikes and no idea how to change a tyre.

And the deluxe version would include a video screen on the back of the car -- showing inspirational films, commercials and -- for the truly dedicated -- a Bloomberg ticker.

I'd better get started on the business plan before Rapha pinch the idea.  Dragon's Den, here I come.

 

The Bandit of the South Circular

The cycling-music interface has not always been a happy place.

True, Eric Clapton's passion for all things Italian (principally wine and supermodels) has led him to build up an impressive collection of Colnago's and a couple of Cinelli's -- but I've seen no evidence of him actually riding them.

There's a great signed picture in Condor's shop of a young Mick Jagger on one of their Mackeson team bikes but it doesn't seem to have been more than a passing Sixties' fad.

And who can forget, however hard they may try, the sight of Paul Weller struggling to maintain his normal icy cool in a wool-mix Magniflex top? Not since Bryan Ferry took to the stage dressed as an Argentine cowboy has a normally stylish man made such a fundamental error in dress sense.

Kraftwerk and the Delgados both include hard-core bikies in their line-up; disappointingly, Campag Velocet never did.

Beyond that, you're really scraping the barrel. The drummer out of Madness was in my old club in the mid-eighties -- he left after he was repeatedly dropped on the mid-week Regents Park chaingang.

And dance music has flirted sporadically with bike clothing. Early ravers briefly took to wearing lycra shorts; and team tops were popular with the late-nineties hard house crowd. Appropriate of course, since Gatecrasher kids were one of the few groups whose consumption of illegal drugs approached the levels of a professional cyclist.

But in all these discussions, one name is routinely forgotten. Step forward Billy Connolly, bearded Scottish comedian, former folk singer and bikie.

At least, I'm pretty sure he was - although I can find no record of it in any of his biographical profiles But I remember reading an interview with him in the eighties where he talked about riding when he was younger.

In particular, he wrote a song when he was a member of the Humblebums, called "The Bandit of the Great North Road".

It was a hymn of praise to those riders who prefer to train alone rather than join clubs or go out with larger groups.

Sometimes, this morning for instance, I feel a bit like that Bandit -- the only rider in Richmond Park not part of some brightly coloured peloton. I like riding in company, and do it when I can.

Equally, there are times when just wheeling along with nothing but your own thoughts is a real luxury.  This morning, icy cold but clear, felt like one of those times. 

Fashion Crimes

Or not. My resolve to stick to a low HR diet lasted a couple of miles, until my riding partner cranked up the speed on the first hill and I had to step it up or be left behind. I genuinely see the long-term possible benefits, but it's much harder to stick to than I thought.

At one point we latched on to the back of a reasonably quick group of about 20, in fairly tight formation -- and I was able to wonder again at the beauty of a small peloton, the thrill of being part of such an efficient machine.

Two things spoiled my enjoyment. The first was the realisation that our rapid progress owed much more to a 20-mph tailwind than any efficiency on our part. The second was the way one of the riders in the pack was dressed.

Did I miss a meeting, or an e-mail from British Cycling HQ? Since when has it been acceptable to wear long football socks on a bike? The guy had fairly normal cycling clothes and shoes -- but spoiled the effect with knee-length white socks with stripes on.

I'm a tolerant man, and no-one who cycled through the '80's is free from some pretty serious fashion crimes on their cycling rap sheet, but there are limits. I know that new people are taking up cycling from all sorts of backgrounds and other sports, and they may not be aware of some of the unwritten rules. And some of those rules are probably due changing anyway.

And yes, all cycling clothing is capable of making even relatively stylish individuals look like numpties.

But knee-length socks? If you see him on the road, please have a word.

Spintime

The torrential rain forecast for London this morning never arrived.  But the wind did.  A horrible, howling headwind that meant I had to stand up for the slightest incline.

Which was another reason my training schedule took a bit of a dive.  I had an hour to get from home to Richmond Park, round it at least once and back home and, because of the threat of rain, I was riding my fully-mudguarded fixed.

I suspect that even Miguel Indurain would have struggled to do that on a 69-inch fixed and keep his heart-rate as low as mine is supposed to be at the moment.*

So it was head down, grit teeth and spin like buggery and I left the heart monitor in the drawer.

I think it's safe to say that the time spent "in zone" was zero -- certainly after I clipped my shoes in.

Back home, I frantically flipped through "the book" in the hope that I could somehow  categorise this morning's session as a "rapid cadence block" or a "threshold spinning period" or some such 21st Century shiznit.  

I eventually found it listed under a "slightly-better-than-stinking-in-your-pit-but-not-much session."

Made me feel better though. Back to the book tomorrow. If it doesn't rain.

*Actually I suspect Big Mig would have done it without even going above 30bpm.

Blow out

Last ride of 2007, and a bizarrely annoying way to end a bizarre year. Five laps of Richmond Park in low-heart-rate mode are brought to an end with the familiar weaving from the front wheel which indicates a slow puncture.

As I unwind the quick-release (with a silent prayer of thanks to Tullio Campagnolo and his frozen fingers on the Croce d'Aune) I reflect that I've done pretty well for punctures this year -- this is the first time I've had to take the Aksiums off since fitting them back in the Spring.

It will be a matter of moments to strip off the tyre, remove the offending tube, check for flints, half-fit the tyre, pull out a new tube, attach the shiny C02 canister and inflate just a little for installation.

Nothing. Not a single squirt. The CO2 canister that I have faithfully carried in my jersey for a year is, perhaps not surprisingly, completely empty.

After five minutes cursing everything imaginable, including my own stupidity -- I stand in the road clutching a wheel and looking hopeful for passing cyclists. This is Richmond Park, so I don't have to wait long. The first to stop, from London Dynamo, is apologetic -- he only has a single CO2 canister but offers, if I'm still stuck next time he comes round, to give it to me.

Another rider leaves me his mini-pump, with instructions to hide it behind a road sign so he can pick it up later.

In the next five minutes, I'm asked at least ten times whether I'm OK, or need any assistance -- a reassuring reminder that solidarity and comradeship among cyclists is not dead. Or perhaps I just look particularly hopeless.

My training plans go out of the window as I'm forced to time-trial the rest of the park and the South Circular in order to get home in time.

Time to reflect on the slightly worn state of the GP3000's and consider their replacement. I've heard bad reports of the new GP4000; so pretty soon I'm on-line, ordering a set of Vittoria Pave's.

And a mini-pump.

Happy New Year

Back for more

One week on, and Richmond Park is a different place. Low winter sun in a cloudless sky; warm despite a harsh wind; relatively few cars but hundreds of cyclists. Some are clearly the advance guard of the post-January 1st resolution brigade -- some, like me, are regular riders - refugees from a Christmas spent overindulging in food and drink.

Solo or in pairs, and packs of London Dynamo -- riding "through and off" with varying degrees of precision and speed.

I'm on my first day training from "the book", and finding it hard going. It's not an easy read, especially for someone who struggled with Maths and Science at school; and it seems to assume that you have access to a sports laboratory or a power meter. Neither is true for me -- especially since most power meters cost more than my bike.

But I've adopted and adapted the central message -- go slower to ride faster; keep your heart-rate below a predetermined level to encourage long term strength and efficiency. It goes against all your natural instincts but after a while it begins to make sense. I struggle when an overweight man on a mountain-bike seems about to overtake me, and sneak briefly into the red. I'm unable to climb even Richmond Park's gentle hills without going a little over; and on the return journey on the South Circular, there are points where you have to make like Cipollini simply to survive.

I get home with a set of figures: average speed 14.5 mph, average heart-rate 125 bpm. I have no idea what they mean or how to improve them, but it's a start.

'Tis the Season

Richmond Park, Sunday morning. Freezing fog and a hangover. Ice crystals making patterns on my gloves and overshoes. The road surface like a greasy, black skating rink and clubmates huddled disconsolately in the cafe car park -- like the penguins from Madagascar. ("Well, this sucks") A break for a few days, from the bike and the blog. Seems like a good time to take it.