Perils of the Peloton Pt .1

In his excellent book The Escape Artist, Matt Seaton briefly touches on an issue of concern to all male cyclists -- shrinkage. This is, of course, a straightforward physiological phenomenon. At times of extreme effort, or extreme cold, the body is designed to channel blood and its vital oxygen to those areas which need it most -- in cyclists' case, usually the legs. It takes the blood from those areas it regards as superfluous -- fingers, noses and private parts.

So it is that after a particularly long or cold training session you find yourself with numb fingers and privates so shrivelled that you resemble a skinny Action Man doll.

In many ways the body is right. Cyclists are a weedy, asexual lot -- not renowned for their lustful behaviour: some old school pros believed in the theory that too much duvet activity had a detrimental effect on your performance the following day. They feared, as boxers did, "leaving their legs in the bedroom".

The legendary Sean Kelly once admitted abstaining from all such nocturnal functions before races -- for different periods depending on the length and severity of the event. One journalist calculated that -- taking into account the Grand Tours, the Classics, the World Championships, late-Summer criteriums and a couple of Six Days -- there was a good chance that Kelly's wife of several years was still a virgin.

Not everyone was so austere. Jacques Anquetil liked to prepare for a race with "a bottle of good burgundy and a woman", but he made both his daughter-in-law and his stepdaughter pregnant so was hardly a role model. Mario Cipollini was once asked whether he abstained from sex before racing. No, he replied, but I try not to have it while I'm racing.

I was reflecting on all of this as I surveyed my sadly depleted body after another long, cold training run this morning. How a sport that requires you to wear the most figure hugging and revealing of kit can leave you with so little to display.

A while ago, I bought a smart jersey and shorts combo from Dauphin Cycles near Box Hill. They are well made and stylish -- but with one fundamental flaw. They are almost see-through, especially in the wet; and pale blue and white are very unforgiving colours.

Unless, that is, you're Tom Boonen. Which is another reason -- along with his talent, palmares, money, and 16-year old model girlfriend -- to hate him. How can I put this delicately? Even after several hundred kilometres of racing and a full-on sprint, no matter how nippy the weather -- when Tornado Tom crosses the line and flings his hands in the air, he appears to have a toddler's arm stuck down his Quick Step shorts.

Put simply, and I apologise for offending more delicate readers -- Tom Boonen must have a huge cock.

The internet, a wonderful source of knowledge. I'm sorry for the slightly unfortunate tone of this post -- tomorrow I'll review dynamo lighting systems or something.

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 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.