A Travers La France: Deuxième Manche

The Price of Progress? Anonymity.

2014-03-28T16:51:00.000+00:00

This image from last weekend's Milano-Sanremo caused a bit of flutter on Twitter, as fans such as @Plastic_Peloton adopted the role of the young boy in the Emperor's New Clothes to point out how ridiculously poor Fabian Wegmann's choice of clothing for the wet and cold race made him look. Functionally perfect garb perhaps, but surely no-one can dispute that sartorially this represents a backward step. A big one too.

For me it's even more fundamental than simply kit that just looks naff: at first hand more large corporations coming into cycling, investing large sums of money in teams in order to market their products to an increasingly large audience might seem like a positive development. However, more insidious in my mind is the increasing human disconnect we're witnessing in our sport brought by this shift, where once-accessible riders are increasingly isolated from their public - either by ill-advised egotistical behaviour fitting of superstar pop divas, privacy windows on Tour buses, burley minders keeping fans at arms' length - or through 'technical' accessories that disguise them completely like these. So many of the Milano-Sanremo riders out there that day were barely recognisable: is this anonymity the price we're paying for supposed progress?

Oh dear.

Admittedly the peloton was well wrapped-up against the elements for La Primavera, but this trend - more sponsors products like glasses and helmets contractually foisted on the riders, identikit jerseys à la Rapha and bland, black plastic 'stealth' bicycles - means riders are virtually indistinguishable one from the other. Riders increasingly resemble corporate billboards, employees rather than riders, reduced to anonymous Robocop automata in a cycling video game rather than individuals with their own style, characters and visual reference points. Interviews too, are, for the most part, simply distilled down to PR opportunities where riders must not stray one iota from sponsors' messaging. In the same way Formula One lost its mojo, cycling risks becoming souless ... thank goodness when Brit-pop bad-boys Cav and Wiggo go off script.

Compare and contrast the above with this image taken during the 1984 Tour de France. Now I've been a fan of the bike for longer than the 30 years since this picture was taken (and I know that the eagle-eyed amongst you will know just from glimpsing Laurent Fignon's Super Record front brake calliper arm being on the 'wrong' side that the image is flopped), but I can still name them all without too much trouble. Next season, 1985, the big money arrived: Bernard Tapie lured Greg from Renault for a million-dollar contract, the American started sporting Oakley Factory Pilots, and arguably this started the downward spiral, as cycling became more commercially confident and moved on from its almost quaint, parochial European roots.

Name them. Not too hard, is it?

Even after 30 years, all of these riders are instantly recognisable. Fignon, Hinault, Angel Arroyo with the white shoes [Miroir du Cyclisme poetically described him at the time as "l'homme aux souliers blancs"; the Tour de France organisation fined him for the transgression], his Reynolds team-mate Pedro Delgado on the wheel of his compatriot's red Pinarello Treviso, Skil's Eric Caritoux just behind, World Champ Greg LeMond, Claude Criquielion and Patrocinio Jiménez riding for Teka - the guy Robert Millar dropped at the top of Peyresourde in the Tour the year before to take victory on Stage 10 to Bagnères-de-Luchon. OK, so I'm renowned as a bit of a 'Statto' when it comes to bikes, but I feel that most cyclists out there 'of a certain age' with a keen interest in the sport would be able to name most of the riders here, the event and the year due to the kit, the sponsors and equipment, but most of all the human features of the personalities. I think it's why I'm a big fan of the Facebook groups "80s Cycling Remembered" and "Real 80s Cycling": simply put, it was cycling at its apotheosis.

Name them. Bit of a challenge, eh? Cyclists? They all look the same to me.

Being a commentator must have been so much easier back then: the opportunity to mix amongst the riders either before or in the aftermath of a race, easy access around team hotels and vehicles, with riders on the road much easier to identify. Forget the small black-and-white screens Liggett and Sherwen often used as an excuse for their constant identification errors, I happen to think that the Stateside-adored 'Phil and Paul' duo were just a little bit crap as correspondents, for both their stilted, overly-excited, permanently intense delivery and the numerous mistakes; let's not even talk about David Duffield here, since his unrelenting 'Colemanballs' deserve a whole post on their own. I'm amazed, conversely, that their modern-day peers like David Harmon, Declan Quigley, Matthew Stephens, Brian Smith, Carlton Kirby and Magnus Backstedt manage to do such an excellent job given the conditions they work under. Better research and preparation? More competition? Who knows.

And finally, if you want to argue that I've been disingenuous by picking a Tour de France summer pic from the past, with riders in short sleeves in the optimum riding conditions rather than the rain and mist of Milano-Sanremo, have a look at the image above and tell me how many of the riders you can name. Yeah, there's some guys from Orica-Greenedge and Garmin-Sharp, on their black Scott and Cervélo bikes for sure, but who are they? And will you be able to name them in 30 years' time?

1986/87 Circuit Cycliste du Port de Dunkerque Start Sheets: Recognise Any Names?

2014-03-21T17:41:00.001+00:00

More digging around in the loft in an attempt to de-clutter, and instead I'm back amongst all my old cycling magazines and souvenirs, having a bit of a nostalgic reminisce about my mid-eighties racing days. Easily one of the best events for many of us in the south-east, raised on a diet of parochial (yet admittedly excellent) Kent and Surrey League road events supplemented with Crystal Palace and Brands Hatch circuit races, were annual trips organised by Roger St. Pierre to go and ride the Circuit Cycliste du Port de Dunkerque each summer. For some reason - perhaps to add a bit of an overseas, err, 'sophistication' - he'd arranged it so that an increasing number of us relatively inexperienced have-a-go plucky Brits from the lower categories were allowed to travel over and mix it with some of France, Belgium and Holland's finest amateur roadmen. A brilliant experience for us, keen as mustard (that'd be Colemans English, rather than Maille Dijon then), and a baptism of fire into hard-core continental racing.

First go: 1986, aged 20. Super excited, soon to be disappointed.

Taking the Sally/Viking Line ferry from Ramsgate to Dunkerque (and a pre-race carbo-load thanks to their on-board restaurant's astonishing Smörgåsbord), we'd ride on to the old port - about 15km from the new ferry terminal if memory serves - where we'd get changed into proper racing kit, get warmed up for the 130-kilometre event, and even courteously sign autographs: being unknown quantities clearly allowed us the short-lived delightful luxury of pro-bikie adulation, and we all revelled in it, some more plausibly than others. Yeah you read that right too: that's an 80-mile crit, around the port and its warehouses with its multiple 90-degree corners, and worst of all, replete with numerous tramlines, almost magnetically drawing us off our racing line like some kind of insidious tractor beam. At my first attempt in 1986, we were already aware after our first warm-up lap of the potential carnage the tramlines on the first corner could cause; no-one wanted anyone to ruin their race and come a cropper so unnecessarily and so early on, but no: despite repeated reminders about it amongst our group, disappointingly one of our entourage - either not the sharpest of intellects, cack memory or just desperately unlucky - managed to ignore all the advice and snugly slot himself into one and ride with all the fluidity of a Scalectrix car for around 15 metres before being catapulted over the bars, right into my path. I avoided falling, but was held up, forced to undo a toe-strap to put a foot down, get out of the mess, and then get restarted with no chance of getting back on. Out the back after a full 200 metres of the race: angry doesn't describe it, and the stricken rider was lucky to not have his injuries compounded by a bruised and bleeding group of extremely disappointed coureurs britanniques. Muppet.

Recognise any names in there? I can see a few ...

Ironically the reason the pace had been so frantic right from the gun was the offer of a prime to the first rider over the line on the opening lap: a pair of Look clipless 'safety' pedals, still a bit of a novelty in the bunch, but by now a DNF was going to be the only result I'd register as the back of the peloton disappeared out of view. Still, I decided I'd come all this way, so I might as well ride a few of the 28 five-kilometre laps, and milk the crowd a bit. Best race face on, trying to telepathically communicate to the 30,000 crowd lining the route that I wasn't just another shit rider, and that I was out the back only because I'd been involved in a crash ... and yet I had sustained no evidence: damn! Can't you see the dirty marks on the ankles of my crisp, white Santini socks, or the scuffs on my pristine Biemme track mitts? No, there were no tell-tale marks, and no-one was really interested in any case. There was a bit of polite cricket-match applause as I struggled around alone, but it was only when the Mayor and a few other dignitaries were milling around the finish line during a lull and unaware of my lonely approach that I managed to gain a bit of support for giving a very Gallic indignant hand gesture, as if to say 'c'mon guys: I may be off the back, but don't I count?'

Glutton for punishment - back again, older and wiser, in 1987.

Next year I came back, determined to do more. It had been a better year for the bike - lots of long rides and races in the summer recess from college, added to by commutes from my mum and dad's place in Addington to Dauphin Sport (as it was then) at the top of Box Hill for work during the week and Saturdays - that's 40 miles a day, over 250 a week, with extra miles before or after work, plus racing on top. Unsurprisingly I was flying. And yet ... and yet. No crashes this time, but instead I managed to stay in contact until around half distance in what really isn't exactly my preferred cycling discipline (self-styled climber: it's the romance), thrilled with being part of the race, delighted at feeling comfortable in such a distinguished bunch, until big-hitter locals like Johan Museeuw, Francis Moreau, eventual winner Jean-Francois Laffillé and top Brits Neil Hoban, Harry Lodge and Steve Cook decided the racing had actually started. Goodbye.

And even bigger and better field for 1987; this time I as marginally more successful.

So, my race was over again, and despite not being in any way a protagonist, I felt I'd done well, or rather I'd simply enjoyed my 'Jim'll Fix It' moment, long before that whole concept went bad. Next year would be a full year racing in France, and also another 12 months of collecting race souvenirs like these. It's still my favourite waste of time, looking back though old magazines and race programmes, and recalling that I once rode - albeit fleetingly - alongside riders of the calibre of the guys above. Then again this was a top-class international event at the time for the 'Continentals' - other winners have included Jos Lieckens, Michel Cornelisse, Bruno Wojtinek, Britain's Peter Sanders and Lithuanian Arturas Kasputis - but thanks to the efforts of Mr. St. Pierre, even us little fish got to swim in the big pond for a short, magical, while.

Flanders Training: No Strava, HRM or Powermeter; Your Legs Tell You When You're Good

2014-03-19T17:20:00.000+00:00

Here's a route for a 'proper' old-school training ride courtesy of my mentor Ken Hargrave, who sadly passed away last summer. I wrote the Eulogy for the service, and eventually Cycling Weekly deigned to publish the obituary I wrote on their online version, which his widow Doreen doesn't have access to: she so wanted to see it in print, and I think it's quite a shoddy way to treat a man who bought 'The Comic' for over 60 years. Clearly there's no space amongst the mail-merge reviews of identikit black plastic bikes ridden by grateful staffers and diet advice on whether to eat porridge or a fry-up on the morning of a Sportive. Anyway, this isn't the place for a rant.

With the cobbled and hilly classics coming up, I thought I'd share the training route map that Ken devised for me when I was preparing for the Ronde Van Vlaanderen Voor Wielertoeristen back in 2011. It's nothing new or revolutionary, and we all knew these hills were there, but the point is that his input and effort to produce this forced me to go and do the rides, much to my benefit. For Ken the North Downs gave ample opportunity to recreate the Flemish hellingen right on our doorstep, and you could ride all the way from Exedown to Leith Hill taking in one b*stard climb after another ... and then doing it in reverse to get home. Here's his poignant hand-drawn map for me of a little loop you can do around Star Hill - perfect for repeats too. It really isn't Strava Cycling, but I like it like that.

I also found these notes from him - on the back of an envelope, naturally - for an extended version of this ride, to be done once you've completed the route above a few times and are feeling stronger:

Climb Star Hill to Knockholt Pound
Through Knockholt Pound to Knockholt
Descend Sundridge Lane and Hill to Pilgrims Way
Climb Brasted Hill, bear left into The Nower, left turn down Hogtrough Hill, right into Pilgrim's Way
Climb Westerham Hill, immediate left at top into Chestnut Avenue
Climb up Clarks Lane, left into descent of White Lane
Right at junction with Titsey Hill, climb to top
Left into The Ridge
Descend Chalkpit Lane, bearing right into Barrow Green Road until A25
Right into Tandridge Hill Lane and continue right into Gangers Hill, back to The Ridge

It's certainly tough training, from a champion cyclist riding in an era when no-one used heart-rate monitiors or power meters, because their legs and lungs told their head exactly how well they were going.

Thank you once again Ken, and Doreen, for everything.

This Is My Inspiration

2014-03-18T11:41:00.000+00:00

Sunday's lone ride in the sunshine felt a little like perfection, for years personified for me by this pic of Roberto Pagnin, training in the Veneto. It's been an inspirational image since July 1987 when I was given the copy of Ciclismo Agonistico by a friend returning from teaching in Siena.

It's not only the aesthetics that count - heck, I'm not that shallow - although the Bianchi X4 here, with its glossy celeste finish and unique black chrome, the Almarc leather bar covering and Campagnolo Cobalto calipers, is undeniably a thing of utter beauty I admire even today. More, the image seems to encapsulate everything I love about the bike: 'continental' cycling, very much distinct from British sport of the era, of a poetic foreign language, of style, sophistication, design flair and craftsmanship, riding on sunny traffic-free roads to a cafe to sit and enjoy a caffè macchiato or two and pore over the results and reports in La Gazzetta dello Sport.

You see, I love cycling, in all its guises; I've ridden and raced for over 30 years (the latter without much success it must be said), and I've absolutely adored all of it, perhaps in a wierd way even the frozen fingers, the soaking feet and the streaming eyes that winter training rides would seemingly inflict on me more than others, without fail. I suppose being out of my comfort zone made me feel alive. Well, perhaps with hindsight.

But it really is when the sun shines that riding truly finds its appeal for an erstwhile competitor and, I admit, fair-weather cyclist like me. The fitness gained through that focussed training and intense competition once gave me the ability to push myself harder and deeper than I thought I could, and would see my voluntary self-flagellation rewarded with a sense of hightened self esteem and pride. However, contrary to coaching advice that dictates that every ride should have an objective, in my view sometimes that goal can be as simple as getting out on two wheels and into the fresh air of the countryside, just for the sake of it. I'm more that happy to casually sling my leg over the bike to meet up with friends in a sociable little peloton, or, as on Sunday, venture out on my own, no particular route in mind, where the simple act of 'getting some miles in' under bright blue skies and some much-missed warmth brings a wave of positive clear thinking that washes over me, gently lifting the stresses of the daily grind away. It's wonderfully simple, and simply wonderful.

Milano-San Remo, 17th March 1990. Or The Day I Became a Kleptomaniac

2014-03-17T16:26:00.001+00:00

Bugno Vincitore!

After a year spent in France in Aix-en-Provence as part of my degree (and racing for the ASPTT Aix) , I graduated from Uni with a hard-fought 2:1, and after dead-end stints in Halfords & Habitat finally managed to get a post as an English teacher in Turin in January 1990 with Inlingua Torino. As you'd imagine, after an année sabbatique in such a gorgeous Provencal town, I didn't think it could get much better, but it was here on the other side of the Alpes Maritimes that my love affair with Italy began. Slowly the language improved - it's not so different from French - and as before, the major reason was my enthusiastic and total linguistic immersion in the place, where I'd devour cycling magazines like BiciSport and La Gazzetta for news on anything to do with the sport I'm absolutely besotted with. Not long after I'd arrived in January, the weather warmed up from the single-digit icy winter lows, and the spring classics were on the way: the 81st edition of La Primavera - 'springtime' as Milano-Sanremo is affectionately known in Italy - took place exactly 24 years ago today, on Saturday 17th March, 1990, and I enthusiastically jumped on a train from Turin with a couple of fellow English teachers to watch the finish on the Via Roma in San Remo. I'd seen 'proper' bike races before - the Worlds in Goodwood '82, the Tour several times in France - but this time the whole feel was different. I'm not knocking the French at all, but they really don't have the warmth and passion of their transalpino cousins, and being a bit of an emotional type myself, the drama of their everyday lives is simply another facet of their national persona that I adore. Well, pehaps not while we're building our guest house out there, but certainly when it's finished ...

A Wonka Golden Ticket, for a collector like me.

The whole town of San Remo was decked out with bunting and flowers, mostly fragrant yellow mimosas, grown in abundance in the Ligurian coastal greenhouses, the Riviera dei Fiori, and traditionally given to grateful mothers on La Festa Della Mamma, Mother's Day, on the second Sunday in March. Everyone was busying themselves in some way, whether chatting, listening to commentary on the radio and relaying it to friends, or arguing as to who might be the winner that day; hopefully an Italian, after a 6-year drought since Francesco Moser's 1984 triumph. The shadows started to lengthen on the roads and pavements of the Riviera as the bunch ate up more and more of the 294-kilometre percorso, and we mooched from one coffee shop to another eager to learn what was going on. At Imperia with about 30 kilometres to go, Gianni Bugno jumped onto the wheel of Angelo Canzonieri as the Gis-Gelati-Benotto rider attacked, and then dropped him as the two tackled the climb of the 240 metre-high Cipressa; Bugno, cementing his reputation as a team leader after a couple of years of early promise, classily pushed on alone over the Poggio and on to victory on the Via Roma, holding off a select chasing group containing Jesper Skibby, Rolf Golz, Moreno Argentin, Gilles Delion, Jean-Claude Colotti and Maurizio Fondriest. 6 hours 25 minutes and 6 seconds, an average speed of 45.8km/h - a long day in the saddle.

Press Car Accreditation, liberated.

After the predicatable melee and euphoria around the finish had died down, as everyone who's been to a bike race knows, the situation rapidly turns to business as usual, as a logistical whirlwind hits the finish: tribunes to take down and pack away, VIP seating to collect, audio equipment to disconnect and store, barriers to move. It was at this point that I took my chance: no-one seemed to be overly precious, so I mingled amongst the RCS officials, smiling politely - and was even thanked for helping out as I removed a zip-tie with a small penknife and folded up a huge finish-line Gazzetta dello Sport banner - and instead of handing it over, I decided that I'd be able to tuck it under my arm and get away with keeping it. Flush with the confidence and nonchalence of the seasoned kleptomaniac, this venturous souvenir-hunting seemed like easy pickings, so I went on to additionally liberate an official press car's bumper plate, and blagged a lanyard from a smiling member of the TV contingent, visually delighted at a Bugno win that would undoubtedly boost viewing figures for not only today, but for all the celebratory repeats to come.

Out of Doctor D's mothballs for Cadence Performance's
'Italian Master Framebuilder Day'

On my return to the UK at the end of the year, to pokey rented flats and with nowhere to realistically hang the thing, I decided to give the Gazzetta banner to long-time friend Rohan Dubash, who at that point was, we both thought, about to go it alone from Dauphin Sport and set up his own very Italian bike emporium, Prima Tappa. The years passed, Rohan moved on from Dauphin to Geoffrey Butlers, to Sigma Sport and eventually on his own as Doctor D, but never used the banner how either of us had envisaged. However, in 2012 I was lucky enough to be creating social media content and helping with event promotion for Cadence Performance in Crystal Palace, and it was at their 'Italian Master Framebuilder Day' that the aging pink banderole got to see the light of day - for the first time in over 20 years - as it helped to create a suitably celebratory atmosphere in shop to complement the array of stunning Italian workmanship on display. Did anyone notice? I don't know, and it doesn't matter, because for me it meant finally renewing an aquaintance with an object that had been hidden away for so long, affording me a little wry smile reminiscencing about how I'd been able to walk off with such a delightful souvenir of a memorable day.

You Must Have Good Eyes To See Through Those

2014-01-20T22:57:00.001+00:00

There was quite a debate over at the superb Facebook group '80's Cycling Remembered' that I'm an avid follower of, relating to this picture: who exactly is the rider in French national kit?

Clearly it's the World Championship Road Race for professionals given the national rather than trade-team kit, and a bit of detective work - the wet weather, Système U riding Gitane frames and Emanuele Bombini in an Assos Italian team jersey on a Bianchi X4 - puts it not as Chambéry in 1989 as many thought, but 1987 at Villach in Austria where Stephen Roche crowned his annus mirabilis triple of Giro-Tour-Worlds.

But who is this mystery French rider? Gérard Rue said some, Luc Leblanc said others - but no one could believe it was Laurent Fignon: for some reason he had, for this race, not donned his usual professorial spectacles, opting instead I assume for contact lenses - this is long before the advent of laser eye surgery don't forget. If it was down to his glasses being a bad idea in the wet, it's strange that he didn't go without them more often, and I'd have imagined he'd be sporting some kind of eye protection to keep the grit out of myopic eyes already smarting from the mix of filthy wheel spray and those contact lenses. Perhaps Rudy Project Performance shades, very much in vogue at the time for example, but could you imagine Fignon in his nemesis Lemond's garish, brash, oversized Oakley Factory Pilots? No, me neither. It illustrates though how much Fignon is instantly recognisable by dint of his thinning blonde hair and those gold-rimmed specs; take them away, stick him in a casquette to cover his mop, and he's incognito to most.

I've ridden a couple of times in standard sight-correcting glasses in the wet, and it's been one of the most miserable experiences I've ever had: non-grip nosepiece useless when combined with perspiration, impossible to see through lenses covered in droplets and so constantly forced to look over the top of the rims, and with poor eyesight that's not really a great idea. Not surprising then that bespectacled riders in the pro peloton are few and far beween - most opting for lenses I assume - but there are a handful. I've compiled a list here from memory; can you think of any other well-known riders I've missed? Interestingly some of the links show the riders in team-publicity shots, without glasses. Vanity, perhaps? Is there a Velominati diktat on corrective eyewear?

Gérard Rué:

Philippe Bouvatier:

Marc Gomez:

Alfredo Chinetti:

Jan Janssen:

Jacques Decrion:

Gerrie Knetemann:

Jan Raas:

Marcel Tinazzi:

Alex Zülle:

Fabio Roscioli:

Andrea Noè:

Ray Booty:

Alan Ramsbottom:

It's the System, Stupid! Race Distances and PEDs: A Spurious Link

2014-01-08T15:51:00.002+00:00

A few years back over at the excellent Italian Cycling Journal blog, there was this post on why, coming up to the Giro d'Italia, the author agreed with Italian public prosecutor Benedetto Roberti's statement that doping in the sport was because "The races are too tough. They need to reduce the kilometers. It’s impossible to think that they [the riders] can complete these races as they are without using banned substances"

More to the point for me, Roberti then went on to state that "Unfortunately that’s the system ... The sport relies on sponsors and sponsors don’t pay the teams unless they win and to win they need to use banned substances." I think it's this second statement that has far more pertinence if we're talking about the fight on doping, and left this comment on the page.

"I've never been convinced it's the distances, but rather modern commercial interests that are the problem with regards to performance-enhancing drugs in cycling. A well-trained pro cyclist should be able to race over 100 miles a day, repeatedly, without the need to dope, unless riding at 45kph 'criterium' speeds. Reduce the distances any more and the Grand Tours for example, the jewels in the sport's crown, will become a 21-day travelling circus of speed rather than stamina, favouring riders with different abilities than the 'Tour' riders. This is a hard sport, and so the Tours have to be gruelling, to provide epic 'exploits', the 'jour sans', a day ruined by 'la fringale', with the winner being someone capable of handling such demanding workloads and blessed with quick recovery. Desgrange said something along the lines of "My ideal Tour is one where only one rider finishes", and whilst I'm not advocating a return to inhuman 400km-plus stages, it's a fact that Merckx and Hinault didn't win Tours with 7-hour stages of 200-250km through the mountains because they doped, it's down to natural ability, to mental toughness, because they could race smart, use their teams and recover day after day, but at average speeds well below what we see today. All the while you have short-sighted sponsors putting pressure on teams, managers and riders to win at all costs or lose their livelihoods, there will be an unbearable temptation to dope. Addressing this by finding what you might term 'traditional' sponsors who are in the sport because they really understand and believe in it - like Mapei's Georgio Squinzi - and having a competent governing body and associated agencies working in partnership to smash the doping rings, vet the 'soigners' and ban the real cheats in a consistent manner will we see the speeds fall. I think it would be a catastrophic mistake if we reduced distances thinking that making things physically easier for these athletes would stop them doping. If we do we'll lose the unique, engaging character of our wonderful sport completely."

The Results Are In ...

2014-01-07T14:56:00.003+00:00

... and it doesn't make great reading. Sunday's 3-hour ride with some of the lads from the Old Portlians from West Wickham and out into the Kent countryside saw me conduct an admittedly less-than-scientific survey * into the responses I'd get to nods, waves and cheery 'hellos', as a follow-up to my last post on the Velominati 'Nod' rules **. Yep, it's quite probable that the Old Portlians is exactly the kind of group based on age I should be riding with, since I'm clearly a grumpy old git with moderate-to-severe Victor Meldrew Syndrome. To be honest though, I wouldn't even complain at the type of reaction pictured below - better than being totally blanked, eh?

Those all-important numbers you've been waiting for, and quite frankly, I don't believe it:

(a) Cyclists passed going the opposite direction: 72, of whom:

Were acknowledged by me (sometimes I'm unable to do anything but pedal): 68
Cyclists acknowledging us first, without prompting: 5
Out of all acknowledgements:
Return nod: 7
Return hello (or similar): 3
Return wave: 1

(b) Cyclists passing our group going in the same direction: 24, of whom:

Were acknowledged by me: 24
Cyclists acknowledging us first, without prompting: 2
Out of all acknowledgements:
Return nod: 2
Return hello (or similar): 5
Return wave: 0

Conclusion: as outlined in that previous post, is there anything that can be done to convince these cyclists that it's actually unacceptable to simply ignore their peers? Have we failed a generation, or is it down to some kind of snobbery, a class distinction based on the perceived value of your kit? Sure, sometimes it's impossible to be polite (riding hard, dangerous to take hands from bars, junctions etcetera), but these are quite damning stats - I almost feel like flicking the Vees back at some of these people: they may be riding bikes, but they clearly aren't riders.

*: I made the numbers up, but it's close
**: I take the Velominati Rules on reciprocal acknowledgement here and here in the spirit they are intended; too many riders out there seem to have taken them to heart - get over yourselves!

Saying Hello Is Waving Goodbye

2014-01-03T16:28:00.001+00:00

Right fellow cyclists: if Beryl Burton can hand up a bloody jelly baby to the male competitor she caught in a 1967 12-hour event (whilst he was en-route to breaking the men's competition record), then I'm pretty sure you can acknowledge the existence of other riders as they nod, wave or shout hello to you as your paths cross out on the road. Certainly this anti-social trend has been well documented in other blog articles and fora, but recent incidents have really troubled me: what's happening to the friendly sport I took up in the early 80s, the refreshingly inclusive pastime rather than badly-taught exclusive ones I endured at school? I'm seriously not unrealistically nostalgic for some rose-tinted ideal of what cycling probably was in the post-war period - as depicted in 'Spinning Wheels' or this CTC Cyclists Special - but really: at one end of the scale not acknowledging other bike riders out on the road is, in my view, just plain rude, regardless whether they're 'newbies' or old hands; at the other, experienced riders like me and Rohan Dubash, aka Doctor D, are fed up of 'wannabe' racers silently speeding past us, so close we almost collide, in an attempt to, what, intimidate us with how quick and 'pro' they are? How good their bike handling would be in the tightly-packed peloton? What's going on here? These people are as disrespectful - and potentially dangerous - as those idiot motorists we have to endure so frequently.

If Alberto can make time for a wave, then what's stopping you?

Clearly cycling, with its new-found popularity and achingly trendy rock-n-roll status in the nation's sporting zeitgeitst, has forgotten its traditional, urbane roots, and has modernised, leaving me trailing in its slipstream. The dwindling traditional club scene as a place to learn, with clubmen and women taking youngsters under their protective wings and schooling them in the art of cycling etiquette and respect, is undoubtedly viewed now as an unfashionable anachronism, of another era, even a little bit odd. Nowdays it seems everything we do or say or wear is a reflection of how successful we are as an individual, and compromising this image in any way is seen as a weakness; maybe good-old fashioned manners, are, well, just a little too old fashioned too. You only have to hang around ambitious middle managers in any London-based agency to see this rather sad scene being acted out on a daily basis, and I've had enough exposure in that yuppie rat-race world to know that it's these types that are being increasingly drawn into a sport I'd argue they don't really 'get': hyper-competitive self-absorbed MAMILs out on the their £10K black plastic 'stealth' bikes on a Sunday, where every ride is a race. How thoroughly modern. And rubbish.

In the past you gained all the respect you'd need from fellow racers by having a clean bike with gleaming chrome, well-tanned, skinny shaven legs, a bit of mileage-induced muscle definition complimented by some crisp white socks of a certain length, and a friendly demeanour to match. In winter - the social season as it was rightly known - it'd be long rides chatting to your mates and a stop at a café for more banter. We knew there was a time to be serious and focussed, and you'd let the legs do the talking when the time was appropriate: during the season in races, and not out on a ride through the lanes in December and January. Clearly all these riders I get no response from are on coach-planned wattage-controlled training rides with such rabid focus on attaining their personal goals that they simply cannot be distracted.

Whilst it's surely a good thing that people are taking up cycling in this country in record numbers, out on the road it's clearly not all positive progress on the conviviality front. I take the Velominati Rules in the tongue-in-cheek spirit I believe they were intended, but it seems there are too many riders out there that just don't understand cycling, what it's fundamentally about and what always made it so very special and different from other sports in the first place. That marvellous sense of fraternity has been rapidly eroded in the individualistic me-first-selfie-generation, when cycling, in my view, had always been about belonging, of having fun together when riding, racing, and simply enjoying ourselves.

So guys (and there are an increasing number of unfriendly hyper-focussed women out there too), save the 'race face' for racing, and instead smile, wave, say hello and look like you're actually enjoying yourselves when you're lucky enough to be out riding your bike. Remember, six of us were killed in the last month in London, so stop acting like a bunch of prima ballerinas, as Ken would say, and take time to say hello to each other. It might be the last time.

Passion: The Life Blood of Cycling

2013-11-11T14:04:00.002+00:00

Remember those crazy South American football commentator ‘gooooool’ celebrations? These seem to get repeated on TV quite often in this country come World Cup time, and whilst I’m sure the editorial intent is for us to be amused at how another nation responds to sporting success, I always thought there was a subtly implied sense of superiority from, say, the BBC, our commentators patronisingly looking on at their hot-blooded counterparts’ exuberance as somehow amateurish, compared with our stiff-upper lip, controlled, British kind of way.

The reason I love the Giro d’Italia is that the race organisers have had a habit lately of giving commentary teams ample opportunity to really stretch their vocal chords in a way that would make those Brazilian fútbol crazies sit up and take note, and they oblige with gusto. I watched stage 15 of the 2012 Giro first on Eurosport where the venerable David Harmon was screaming himself hoarse at the finish, and then found it again on YouTube where I watched – and listened to – the Italian TV coverage. Forget that this was a stage win by an Italian, in a race where the home nation seems to be having less and less success of late, this really was a stage that restored my faith in cycle racing: one of the best stages I’ve ever seen in a grand Tour, and the two commentators only added to the euphoria by completely letting their emotion getting the better of them. A strange phrase that, since surely losing a little bit of self control is what watching sport is supposed to do to people. No matter if you don’t understand Italian – passion sounds the same in any language.

It could be argued that it’s the riders that make the race rather than the percorso, but in recent years the Giro has consistently outshone its transalpine rival for enthralling racing. Whether the Tour is too big, there’s too much at stake, and that the emphasis on the tactics of control and defence – rather than attack – is a result of the French race’s predominance could generate a mini-novel of blogposts on its own. Is the traditional demanding final week in the Dolomites at the Giro really an incentive to dope? It’s a criticism that I’ve seen leveled at it, and ostensibly the reason why races like the Tour have reduced the number of kilometres and mountain-top finishes. But despite our Bradley’s outstanding win at this year’s Tour, for long stretches, and in the mountains where the race is supposed to come alive, what we somewhat reluctantly witnessed was Team Sky’s total dominance and control of the racing. Apart from Cadel cracking, it was like watching a wattage-controlled high-intensity Sky altitude training camp, day after day. Was the route not hard enough? Would it have made a difference anyway? Undoubtedly if the route had been more challenging, Sky would have changed tactics and the result may wall have been the same. Whatever the reason, I’d argue that the Giro better expresses what I consider to be ‘proper’ bike racing, where there’s something, an indefinable quality, that encourages riders to throw caution to the wind and try and make a race of it. Something in the water? There is a recipe on the peninsula for something called ‘Acqua Pazza‘ - 'Mad Water' after all…

Regardless of my opinions on the reasons, Stage 15 was undeniably an epic; I challenge anyone not to be moved by the action in the clip below, stunning racing augmented by two Italian commentators who ably add their quintessential latin passion to the race finale. Matteo Rabottini, a young pro with the Farnese Vini-Sella Italia team and son of former pro Luciano, thrilled the partisan crowd by holding off a storming Joaquim Rodríguez of Katusha in a pulsating finish. It was a performance of daring and bravery from the 24-year-old, who led the stage from almost start to finish, picked himself up off the tarmac after a fall in the wet at the foot of the final climb, and still had enough grinta to repel the challenge of the rampaging Rodríguez at the summit at Piani dei Resinelli. The Spaniard appeared to have timed his final effort to perfection to win the stage – as well as take the maglia rosa – by catching Rabottini with just 400 metres to go, but the proud Italian refused to let go of Purito’s wheel as he tried to accelerate past him, and then surprised him with a last-ditch winning effort to the line. And this after a gruelling 169km stage, alone for the most part through rain and mist over four categorised climbs – an exploit that is becoming a rarity in these days of almost palpable commercial pressure not to lose, rather than win. To an extent I think the outburst of emotion from both the British and Italian commentary teams is as much one of relief as anything else, relief that a race like this can still happen and a welcome indication that even ‘modern’ cycling still has this wonderful potential to help us lose ourselves completely in the pure excitement of the sporting spectacle.

Ken Hargrave – Our Cycling Champion

2013-11-07T15:05:00.000+00:00

I lost one of my cycling heroes back in June. Ken Hargrave, who, along with his wife Doreen had taken me under their wings back in 1983 as a schoolboy riding for the Old Portlians, lost his fight with mounting illness and frailty. Although this was terribly hard to do, it was an honour to be asked by Doreen to write this Eulogy that the vicar read out at the service. I wish, as a farewell gesture, that I'd had the strength to read it out myself. Impossible.

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Long before the Internet took over as the supposed fount of all knowledge for racing results, cycle coaching, tips and advice - a lot of it a load of unbelievable rubbish, as he would often mutter - riders like us relied on wonderful people like Ken for good-natured support, encouragement and help. He was the epitome of the approachable club cyclist, a talented competitor in his own right, blessed with a selfless honesty, integrity, and a love of the sport he was keen to pass on to us newcomers, eager to learn. As well as unlimited access to his collection of 'Cycling Weekly' going back some half century or more, there'd be a seemingly infinite pool of experience willingly passed on, gems which affectionately became known, in certain circles, as 'Kenisms':

When do I drink when I'm in a race, Ken?

"Drink before you're thirsty. And eat before you're hungry. Little and often."

But what do I eat?

"Doreen's made some jam sandwiches in foil for your jersey pockets, here's a banana, and there's a cheese and pickle sandwich in the kitchen you should eat before we go." And invariably, at least two cups of her delicious thirst-quenching tea, too.

What tyre pressure should I run, Ken?

His experienced thumb was all that was required. He'd push it into my front and rear tyre in turn, and that cheeky grin and a wink would confirm I'd got it right, or the track pump would come out, and in a few moments we'd be ready to ride.

How do I ride a wheel, Ken? It looks really dangerous!

Hours of Sunday club runs though the lanes were the place where his advice was meticulously put into practice: "Don't look down at my back wheel; when you're riding, if you focus on my backside you'll be the right distance away and be able to see what's going on in the bunch around you too."

To an easily embarrassed 15-year-old boy, this seemed decidedly odd at the time, but now we all know. As with all things bike, he was absolutely right.

"And make sure you listen too: the swish of tyres on the road, and the sound of people changing gear means that something is happening: the racing has started. Keep your eyes AND ears open!"

His patience with us was legend, certainly when we first started out and were having trouble even finishing races. Perseverence was what counted:

"Stay in there, no heroics. Keep plugging away, and one day it'll 'click'."

I remember the evening it eventually did 'click' for me, a Thursday night at Brands Hatch, and it all happened just like he said. I stayed in the fast-moving bunch, having sipped and nibbled all race, stared at riders' backsides for longer than is advisable, and listened intently to the point of self-inflicted tinitus ... The shandy Ken bought me that evening at our usual haunt on the drive home really was the sweetest thing I've ever tasted.

That cycling epiphany - all thanks to Ken and Doreen - had given me a sense of freedom, of self-worth and secret pride that I'd struggled to find elsewhere. They'd made a five-foot boy feel ten-feet tall.

Along with our families there will no doubt be many among us here who have Ken and Doreen to thank for shaping us into the people we are today, and it's a debt of gratitude we'll no doubt never be able to adequately repay. Thanks to them, a life with cycling in that era seemed idyllic, much simpler, sunnier even when it rained. We really were young and carefree, as one of Ken's favourite riders wrote. Laurent Fignon was a favourite for his attacking, have-a-go riding style, and no doubt also for his matter-of-fact honesty and belief that cycling, even at the top level, should still be about having fun. It's no surprise that posters of the much-missed French champion still hang in Ken's garage alongside numerous bikes and other cycling paraphernalia, and I'm sure that's how many of us view our racing adventures with him. Simple, honest - physically challenging for sure - but fundamentally just great fun.

It wasn't always laughter and light though, as I'm sure Michael James will testify. There were moments when Ken could get quite exasperated with us, but rightly so. Sometimes we really weren't giving the bike the focus it deserved, were 'playing at it', and wasting our time. He wasn't angry that we might be wasting his time because he loved the bike too much, and neither was it that suddenly we weren't supposed to be enjoying ourselves. It was far more that Ken passionately wanted us to realise how important it was to make the most of whatever talent we might have - to be the best we could be. That sounds like a pretty good approach to the way we all ought to tackle everything we do in a lifetime, in my opinion, and it's an opinion shaped in no small measure by the man we've come here to honour today, a cycling champion in the truest sense of the word.

"Cycling was his life when I met him, and it always has been" Doreen told me last week, and for people who knew him, had the good fortune to ride with him or have been part of those teams in which he's been a pivotal character for so many years, we'll miss him dreadfully. But it's the team he's been in for over 60 years that will undoubtedly feel this terribly sad loss the most. But Doreen, you'll never be alone because we're team members too, not second-claim but fully-paid up members of Ken and Doreen's team, for life, and we'll be here for as long as you need us.

And to all of you - if you do two simple things in the next few weeks or months, here are a couple I'm sure Ken would appreciate. Firstly, just get out on your bike, ride, feel the freedom it offers you, and go and marvel at the beauty of the open expanses of the Ashdown Forest. The terrain is tough when you're on two wheels, but infinitely rewarding, and for this reason it's the place he truly loved when he was cycling. Do it, do it with friends, and do it soon.

And secondly, we're all wearing black today because it's the done thing, but if the truth were told, Ken hated black, especially when it came to bikes. He'd often lament the modern trend for bikes to be black, all naked carbon-fibre and anodised components, a marketing-fabricated image of 'mystery and stealth' to impart some feeling of speed. "Rubbish", he'd say. "All these bikes look like they're in mourning". So, when you get home later, go and take a look at your bike, and if it fits the description above, promise Ken that you'll make one easy change and at least swap out that sad black handlebar tape for something happy and bright. And then go out and ride with a smile on your face because you, like me, have been privileged enough to have known Ken Hargrave.

One To Treasure: Autographed Livre d'Or 1987

2012-06-21T11:11:00.002+01:00

Even the man's signature shows his fun-loving side:

Right - Get that on eBay, pronto!!

I met Roche in Valloire in July 1996, in a blowing gale and single-digit temperatures as riders were ferried to an alternative start for the shortened stage to Sestrieres. His signature with the doodle of the bike was the same back then, and is a humourous indicator of how much he still loves cycling. You only have to chat with him for a moment to realise that he's not only a true professional who was one of the best in the world at his chosen sport, but that it was always so much more than just a job for him. His continued affection for cycling is obvious, and I'm delighted to report, highly contagious.

Stephen Roche - Born To Be A Rider

2012-06-20T16:44:00.000+01:00

From Wikipedia:

Blarney is something more than mere flattery. It is flattery sweetened by humour and flavoured by wit. Those who mix with Irish folk have many examples of it in their everyday experience.

And so it was that two leading proponents of the genre - owner & compere Frank Beechinor and cycling hero Stephen Roche - came to provide us with a masterclass in the art, in an evening at Cadence Performance in Crystal Palace, one of a number of venues Roche has visited on a tour to promote his new autobiography, Born To Ride. I'm still buzzing about how much fun this was.

Remind me. Who is the book about?

I know the title of this post isn't exactly that of the book - which incidentally was going to be the darker and more interesting "Angels and Demons" - but it's my take on it. It's entirely intentional: Anquetil was clearly born to ride, as were Kelly and Cavendish. But Roche really was born to be a rider, in the completest sense of the word. As a fan, and undoubtedly for any sponsor, he's exactly the type of successful yet eloquent modern athlete I'd not only enjoy witnessing winning, as so often he did, but I'd also want to listen to and be representing my brand. He's effortlessly engaging, a marketing man's dream, with a commercial value beyond being a fast-moving logo-plastered sandwich board for a multitude of corporate backers. A prolific, stylish winner on the bike, you could always rely on Roche for a brilliant quote once off it. Gift of the gab, yes. Irish Blarney, if you like.

I always cringe when sportsman are asked to, for example, 'talk us through that second goal'. There's very little point, really. Do we simply expect too much from our sporting heroes? I admit it's far too easy to criticise footballers in particular for their banality, in no small part due to the ubiquity of the sport's coverage, and I'm unreservedly grateful that cycling is getting more of a look-in in the UK given the success of the British contingent on Team Sky. However, I'm nevertheless hard-pushed to find Cav's constant thanks for his team-mates particularly edifying. He's undoubtedly accurate and being genuine, minding his 'P's and 'Q's, but in my opinion he's not engaging anyone other than a very narrow audience of previously converted geeky followers. I'd like the real Mark Cavendish to stand up please, warts and all. Fortunately Wiggo has a tendency to be a bit more of a loose canon, prone to inadvertently saying something that - heaven forbid - doesn't fit in with strictly moderated sponsor 'messaging'. It's so much more interesting when he goes off-script. But when we talk about Roche, well, Roche is in a different league.

Some of the evening's anecdotes surrounding his exploits and antics are better known than others. On the 1987 La Plagne stage collapse - Liggett's memorable commentary maître d'œuvre - and so exhausted that he's unable to talk, he describes his communicating with the Tour doctor by blinking as 'not a great conversation'. The audience is in stitches. This alongside the much-publicised gem of a response to a TV interviewer as he lies prostrate in the ambulance, and 'not ready for a woman just yet'. From the Stephen Roche Story DVD, asked for the secret of his first stage-race success in the 1981 Paris Nice, a young Roche, already showing an excellent command of the language, reveals "Chez nous on mange beaucoup de patates" - in our house we eat a lot of potatoes. It's media-savvy, instantly endearing genius. Tonight perhaps only he could have got away with his highly amusing impression of Sean Kelly because he's a fellow Irishman and friend. I failed in an attempt to stifle my laughter, the flimsy urge for political correctness brushed aside by something simple, peurile, and most of all, fun. It was spot on.

It didn't matter that there was much talk about aspects of the book that as fans we were, for the most part, well aware of already. It was all there: his violent persecution by the Italian tifosi as 'a traitor' for taking the race to incumbent Giro winner and 1987 team-mate Roberto Visentini in what photographer Graham Watson describes as the 'best stage race he's ever seen'.

Visentini in his usual spot: on Roche's rear wheel.

On strategy for winning the Tour, he gave us revealing insights into the tactical nous for which he's held in particularly high esteem: the constant on-the-road observation and decision making, the evening planning for the days ahead, potential alliances with other teams, and the analysis of his rivals' state of both body and mind. And who thought bike racing was just about riding fast?

Make mine a Triple.

Similarly the revelation that he might not have won The Triple if it hadn't been for the weather. The 1987 Giro witnessed unseasonally cold conditions in the normally cauldron-like south, the Tour had hot days interspersed with the sort of colder, wetter weather Roche thrived in, and the World professional road race was run off in low temperatures and early-morning rain. I'd helped out with the supporting video presentation for the evening, and the clip that was shown of his rainbow-jersey winning ride - again, not widely broadcast in the UK, if at all, at the time - was met with a virtual standing ovation from the 100-plus guests. His move through a gap barely wide enough for his Benotto-taped Cinelli 64's was the epitome of audicity, the toothy smile breaking across the grubby face of a World Champion who'd earned his title competing in the rain and cold for 7 hours. The hair stood up on the back of my neck, because here we were standing next to the man that did that.

When asked to compare racing from then with now, the pressure on today's pros is something that Roche unsurprisingly has opinions on, not least I expect because it's the place where his son Nicholas plies his trade. For someone wrestling with the predictability of modern racing, I'm particularly interested in his views. Roche bemoans that fact the today's riders are too willing to ride for second place, for UCI World Tour points, to defend their 'interests' rather than seizing an opportunity to win. The result is that the radio-controlled racing has become formulaic and predictable, with Roche repeating his Carrera DS Davide Boifava's mantra 'to win you have to be prepared to lose'. His view that today's riders - still living in Armstrong 'era of the robots' - don't seem to enjoy the sport as much as they did in the past also chimes well with Laurent Fignon's Nous Etions Jeunes / We Were Young And Carefree - another recommended read. Whilst multilingual Roche may well have found the PR side of his work easy - and enjoyable - compared with most, he obviously still had to deal with the uncertainty and contractual wrangles brought about by his recurring struggles with injury. The overall tone is that modern cycling appears to have lost its sense of fun, that it's no longer anything like a game. Gone is respect, tradition and character, replaced with the modern-day practice of building riders up, pushing them as prodcuts, expecting so much on a sporting and commercial level, and then abandoning them when they fail - the fear of which means no one is prepared to take any risks. You can see this change slowly yet inexorably creeping in, and for me it's not a positive development.

Peter Cossins has done a fine job of bringing everything together in a highly enjoyable read. Despite being a massive fan of cycling from this era in particular - for reasons outlined in the paragraph above - it doesn't matter one iota that I was already aware of most of what has been written in the book. As The Washing Machine Post so eloquently points out, you knew what was coming, because you'd been interested all along:

Biographies and autobiographies suffer from the same intrinsic problem; most of the intended readership already know that the butler did it. the destination is often already well kent; the motivation for purchase is more about the journey.

Un champion du monde peut en cacher un autre ...

Now imagine being treated to a book - and career - review with the man himself. Roche augments the whole experience with has insights, amusing anecdotes, banter and witticisms. All in all, a wonderfully enjoyable evening, and enough to make me want to jump aboard that old steel bike, ditch the helmet and feel the wind in my greying hair, to go and ride with all the enthusiasm of the 20-year-old carefree young man I was back when Roche was astounding us all with his 1987 'annus mirabilis'

I'm well known as a died-in-the-wool Hinaultista, but I'm quickly gravitating towards Roche after this evening. My wife Kelda and I hung around to the end of the event to get him to autograph a multitude of my 1987 copies of Miroir, Vélo and Bicisport, and he seemed to genuinely enjoy looking back at the images. He surely wouldn't be human if there was no lingering nostalgia for the pro rider he once was, and I'd guess that it's undoubtedly the case. Plans are underway, through Frank's various contacts, to get Le Blaireau up to Cadence for a similar evening, but he's really gonna have to go some to match the Irishman's charm, to be sure.

Will We Be Dancing On The Alpe in 2013?

2012-06-01T16:39:00.001+01:00

Here's me showing the boys how to let their sweat-sodden, salt-encrusted hair down in Carry-Le-Rouet, after we'd all completed the end of the final stage of A Travers in July 2009. If I hadn't taken up cycling, I'd probably have been a dancer. I'm not referred to as 'Mincer' for no reason, riding around (and walking, come to that) looking like the unholy bastard (and admittedly miraculous) lovechild of and Alan Carr and Graham Norton.

There's clearly the heady mix of relief and euphoria, the plentiful cheap alcohol carried by hyper-oxygenated red blood cells to flood my brain, causing me to show some uncharacteristic joie de vivre. Because underneath I'm absolutely seething: as documented elsewhere in the blog, I was pipped to the finish down on the Med coast by Jamesy, yet a-bloody-gain.The man has no class. Can't he let me win? Just once? Can we just not be racing each other all the time?

So, come the Alpe in 2013 (he's never ridden it, despite my repeated attempts to get him to do it over the years, so I have the advantage of familiarity) I promise that for once there'll be no more nice guy, none of my usual 'won't it be nostalgic and sentimental to ride up together' and finish like a couple of 1986 hand-in-hand Greg & Bernards. Instead I'm gonna behave just like him, the competitive sod, and even though it's not a race and it doesn't really matter, I'm gonna get to the top before him. Whatever it takes. I might even get an accomplice to stand along the route taking photos near the top.

Whooh! Hark at me! Call me Macho, rather than Mincing, Mike Curtis, clearly trying the shake off the effeminate tag (it's probably the one I left attached to the collar of the delightful chiffon blouse I just bought myself).

Electric Gears - Energy Saving? Illegal?

2012-05-07T12:25:00.000+01:00

I'm no luddite, but ... isn't electric gear changing via an external power source an artificial aid, and as such shouldn't be permitted? There's a battery strapped to the downtube, in case you were unsure. So where do you draw the line? Electrically aided gear changing is OK, but it's obvious that Fabian Cancellara's motorised bike isn't.

As Fabian himself puts it about this 'doped' bike "It's so stupid I'm speechless," he said. "I've never had batteries on my bike." Never used Di2 then, Fabian? I'd dispute that.

I'm all for technology bringing benefits to bike riders, but surely the whole point in racing is that the person who wins - whether a TT or road race - is the one with the most energy left for racing their bike in the final, as Sean Kelly might say. And that should mean everything on the bike - including gear shifts - being powered by the rider alone.

Something Missing?

2012-05-06T20:59:00.001+01:00

It's probably a fair statement to say that the majority of bikes at the top-end of the market are assembled piecemeal from individually-purchased components, carefully selected by the discerning bikie after long hours of deliberation and research; it's a process that can easily descend into near obsession and the topic of often-heated conversations on many a club run. Cutting-edge composite technology and metal engineering and their influence on our component choices are an integral part of the racing cycling experience, and an aspect that makes the sport even more engaging, certainly for a poseur and geek like me. Alongside training miles, race results and clothing choices, everything about the dream bike's build is a pored-over choice, discussed and debated, and not only for what are supposedly the extremely personal 'contact' points like saddle, bars and ... pedals. Yeah, pedals. Kinda vital on a bike, wouldn't you say?

Given the role they play, what I'm finding difficult to understand is why bike manufacturers are increasingly viewing this component as somehow optional in their advertising. Surely their omission renders the bike incomplete, unrideable, useless, in the same vein as advertising a Ferrari without its Pirelli P Zeroes might be. Look through bike mags and sites and you'll note the trend to include bike weights quoted excluding pedals, as if this unsung component were somehow simply an optional extra. Marvel over expensively lit studio shots of the top-of-the-range machine in question, nothing left to chance in the attempt to engender unbridled desire for their product, and the very means of propulsion are missing. If it were a refreshing bottle of lager, it would've had the complete food-stylist treatment and be sprayed with droplets of condensation, to reach out and whisper 'chilled' and 'thirst quenching'. On bikes the ten-past-two wristwatch-marketing equivalent has always been displaying the bike in the big ring and smallest sprocket, since 53x12 shouts speed (but only when you're using our bike, obviously). But including pedals, surely.

I've already mentioned the wonderful advertising that Ten Speed Drive Imports used to place in Winning Magazine in the 1980s in this blog - it was teenage desire-affirming hard-core bike porn, not seen anything like it since, more's the pity - and the pedals were always on there. Why wouldn't they be?

Image by steel-is-real

Perhaps back in the day it was a given that if you'd selected a Campag gruppo for your bike, then the pedals would also be from Vicenza - and no doubt matched with their alloy toe-clips and Alfredo Binda Extra toestraps. The same would be true of a Shimano or Stronglight/Spidel equipped bike: all the advertisements would include a pedal, out of - dare I venture - completeness. So, was it simply because in the past there was less choice, and so less scope for upsetting a potential punter's sensibilities with the inclusion of what might not be their preferred pedal? Best not try and influence their thinking, heh?

Today, the bars, the saddle, the groupset, wheels and tyres are all still there - unsurprisingly to me - but frame manufacturers appear to baulk at going as far as including pedals. The only reason I can think for their exclusion is that the multitude of providers, styles and engagement mechanisms preclude them from being displayed, as if the frame manufacturer is avoiding the endorsement of a particular brand or mechanism through fear of causing some kind of offence - we're all so easily offended these days after all - leaving this gaping hole in the complete picture to be filled by the consumer's personal whim. Show them a pedal option they don't like, and they might pass on the bike as a whole. Then again, surely any component selection is only about personal taste, and we can mix and match as much as we like (although it's not something I'd do - I'm unashamedly Italian when it comes to what I choose for my bikes)?

So what is it with pedals? Check out these top-flight 'hero' bikes on these manufacturers' sites, and you'll note that there's not a pedal to be seen:

Colnago
Wilier-Triestina
Pinarello
Bianchi
Focus
Ridley

I don't get it. I've already touched on contact points (yep, pun intended), but surely tyre choice is just as personal, with a potentially broader gamut available depending on intended usage. The modern trend for factory-built wheelsets would also undermine this reasoning - high-profile or low, ceramic bearings or not, tubulars or clinchers. Or even the latest road-tubeless innovations. So, does anyone out there have any ideas? What is it about poor old pedals that makes them persona non-grata in bike advertsing?

Why? Because I'm Worth It.

2012-05-01T00:06:00.000+01:00

I'd been in Frankfurt for over three weeks last September, working every day at the the IAA - the Motorshow - and on the only afternoon I had off I tracked down the wonderful Assos 'Nucleo' shop in town, apparently the only one of its kind in Europe. There's not even one in the trendy commercial centres like Milan, Paris or Barcelona, nor their HQ in San Pietro di Stabio in Switzerland. This was going to be an interesting bit of time away from the office ... and potentially expensive.

I've always loved Assos kit, somewhat weakly suckered in by their slick marketing long before Rapha jumped on the bandwagon. To be fair, it's always been excellent quality gear, reassuringly expensive, it's associated heavily with the European professional scene, and unsurprisingly the Nucleo shop embodies everything that you'd expect from such a premium brand. Shopping becomes an experience, over and above the clothing. It's slickly-opening spotless drawers containing crisply-arranged products, it's the flooring, the lighting, the Assos-branded cups I'm sipping a complimentary espresso from as I perch on the edge of a piece of angular, modern leather furniture. The shop staff were never going to have to try hard that day: I wanted the Assos Limited Edition (see - it's got me already) Federazione Italiana Heritage Jersey as soon as I was aware of its release, and I was standing there with some cash burning a hole in my pocket, rainy-day money that had been there for quite a while. I felt justified in a warped way, since unlike profligate Western governments, Kelda and I have been saving hard for the next stages of The Italy Project since we bought our place in Le Marche back at the end of 2007. At that moment I felt that after such a long stint away from home and such a thrifty existence for the last few years, the ordinarily crazy act of spending over £100 on a cycling jersey was justified. I simply deserved it.

Did I mention that the Heritage Pack also includes a pair of white Assos socks, and the
matching casquette shown in the image above? That makes it worth the expense.

Whilst I know I'm going to love mincing around on the C40 in the summer sunshine wearing this jersey, I have to admit that it's actually an inferior substitute for another Italian National Squad jersey I've wanted for over 25 years. Still made by Assos, it's the jersey used by the Italian team both in 1986 at Colorado Springs when Moreno Argentin won, and again the next year when he lost the maglia iridata to Stephen Roche in Villach.

Tony Mills at Dauphin Sport sowed the seed in my head way back then, pointing out at the time that not having the jersey made by one of the big Italian brands such as Castelli or Santini would mean that the association wouldn't last long, and that this would end up a rarity. I'm certain that my desire to obtain one started right there. Remember though: these were pre-Internet days, and to get hold of one of these you'd probably have to live in Italy and be related to one of the riders lucky enough to have made it into the squadra azzurra with a jersey to spare. Assos Italian blue with vertical green, white and red tricolore bands. Rudy Projects, no helmet. Über cool.

Note Charlie Mottet crying in the background because he's been riding around for 7 hours in a shitty Adidas top

In fact Argentin has been a style icon responsible for not only one, but two of the best jerseys I've ever seen, as well a bike I've always dreamed of owning (I had a stab at it in the early 90s with a replica bike even my main man Doctor D thought was desirable). Not only did he get to sport the best national jersey ever devised, he also spent a season in the best Worlds jersey too: Castelli's own take on the rainbow bands, and the first to provide matching shorts. Divides opinion this, I know, but I love it. There are some additional factors at play here though - it's the whole package.

Sheer class, in every respect

Look at that 1987 team-issue Bianchi for starters. Columbus SLX, chromed head tube, forks and rear stays with black lacquer overlay, fork crown and rear brake bridge picked out to match the frame main tubes. Campagnolo Colbalto brake calipers (utterly gorgeous), celeste colour-coded Almarc leather bar covering and matching bottle cages, long before this type of attention to detail was the norm (although Bianchi clearly benefit from having a simple colour associated with its brand; I can only think of Wilier Triestina's copper-coloured frames as another example). Add in the white lever hoods, off-white wheel guides on those Campag brake shoes and the similar-coloured rubber doughnut on the cable adjuster and you've got a bike being ridden by just about the most stylish rider that ever turned a 170mm Record Corsa crank in anger.

With his olive skin, quintessential latin looks, he was the pro I wanted to look like (I'm a blue-eyed blonde and prone to sunburn). Yeah sure, strive to ride like Hinault, with a bike position like Hinault (can't do this either ...), but give me the dress sense and style of the Italian from San Dona di Piave any day of the week. He even made those grey Brancales look good, that when shod to Lemond's well-documented troublesome plates only managed to remind us of something you'd see worn by a clown at a Billy Smart's circus reunion. I'd also take the liberty of pointing out the matching Swatch watch ...

OK, OK, I'm labouring the point about pro style for sure, to the degree that this might seem like I'm indulging in man-love, but talking about it does bring me around to the sartorial elegance apparently lacking in one of our favourite sons. I'm afraid that Bradley - who I think comes across as an awesome bloke as well as great rider - really did look like Worzel Gummidge on the top step of the podium at the Tour of Romandie at the weekend. Brad: take a style tip out of Moreno's book: raz that bloody 'trendy' hair off for a proper, smart cropped Mod style, change those black socks for white ones, and cut them down by about six inches. Please. Ken and Doreen (you know them from your boyhood racing days alongside OPCC roadman Ian Jeffery) have been chewing my ears off about it all bloody weekend!!

Sincere apologies Brad. Just win the Tour and I'll take it all back and buy you several beers. It'd be an absolute pleasure. And also: I love the fact you do interviews in French.

The Collector

2012-04-29T15:29:00.000+01:00

It's a couple of years since I last did some writing for Phil Diprose at The Ride Journal, and we're presently having a discussion about my submitting something new for the next issue. Below is my piece entitled "The Collector" which appeared in Issue 3, the result of a conversation I had with him explaining why I've got a loft crammed full of cycling magazines from all over Europe, going back over nearly 40 years.
I'd argue that this apparent compulsive hoarding is in no way a sign of mental illness (I think he doth protest too much), but rather no more than a harmless extension of Obsessive Compulsive Cycling Disorder - a book I'm currently reading by Dave Barter. It's a much-valued accumulation over the years of a wide variety of printed matter, chronicling my love for this beautiful sport. No-one in their right mind would throw out family photographs, and these items are similarly capable of engendering a deep emotional response in me.

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It ran like this: if you wanted to be a pro, you’d need to go and live and race abroad and speak the language. We’d all heard the numerous broken-dream stories of talented Brits in France who’d returned early, simply unable to cope. I don’t know which came first for me – the love of the language or my boyish cycling dreams – but whichever it was, when my French teacher urged us to listen to French radio, read novels and newspapers like Le Monde, I had a plan. In the mind of a 15-year-old Francophile, tuning in to long-wave radio to catch the results of a Dauphiné Libéré stage was a brilliant idea, and Baudelaire, Balzac or dreary business journalism could quite reasonably be substituted with magazines like Vélo, Miroir and Sprint. Here was stuff I actually wanted to read.

This was an era when Cycling Weekly was our only access to the ‘continental scene’, the occasionally inspiring cover removed and blu-tacked to the bedroom wall, the perfunctory journalism inside simply skim-read and discarded. This novel French reading matter from Charing Cross Road was different. Out of habit I similarly defaced my first copy of Miroir – a picture of Hinault in yellow – and regretted it the moment I did it. What had I done? Transformed into something to cherish, the evocative photographs and poetic writing meant that there was no way further acquisitions could be mutilated like this. The Collector was born.

I was transported into a world of cycling wonderment: Le Coq Sportif yellow and Chocolat Poulain-sponsored polka-dot jerseys, Gitane bikes and Merlin Plage banners, red Peugeot commissaire’s cars blasting out their distinctive klaxons and flashing their headlights as the winner crossed the line. The voice in my head as I read is Daniel Mangeas, Le Speaker du Tour.

These first copies are my favourites, with riders unsullied by sponsors sunglasses and logo-plastered helmets, displaying instead an almost quaint parochial amateurism, of minimal sponsorship and commercial interests, where quintessentially French characteristics stand out. There’s a much-missed simplicity where the honest, human emotions of the riders are centre-stage: the intensity of effort, the unyielding focus on victory - la rage de vaincre - and the contrasting joy and disappointment of winner and losers alike.

As time has passed so the collection has grown, carefully stored in the loft and removed for occasional reminiscing. More than just a record of how cycling has changed over the years, they’ve become a poignant reference to moments in my own life: of exciting foreign adventures where they were purchased and poured over, of new places and people, of growing up, and like the fading images of the riders inside, of inevitably growing older.

I remember where I was when I bought a specific issue, what I was doing, who I was with. Pascal Simon grimacing up Le Puy-de-Dôme with a broken shoulder blade when perhaps I should have been revising harder. First-kiss butterflies of a new relationship, whilst Jean-Francois Bernard hauled himself to the top of the Ventoux faster than everyone else. Cowering inside a rain-sodden bar at Les Deux Alpes reading about that day’s stage in L’Equipe, whilst outside Marco simply rode away from everybody.

Whilst deep-down I had no real hopes of becoming a pro, language study took me to University with a year in southern France, and a chance at the very least to pretend to be a rider. The irony of getting my name into Vélo in 1988 simply for being a coureur Britannique riding in a French team, obviously the next Stephen Roche, was not lost on me. My personal triplé for the season consisted only of a nut-brown cyclist’s tan, French now spoken with a Pagnolesque Provençal twang, and a sizeable overdraft.

These riders were my boyhood companions, people I identified with, sartorially imitated on the bike and somehow wanted to be. Flicking through the magazines is like looking back at a family photo album you wish you were somehow in. Then they were daredevil uncles, today energetic young nephews, but both heroically competing in the hardest sport in the world, a sport I had neither the ability nor courage to pursue to their level, on the only stage that’s ever counted for me: Europe. The images and words captured inside are a celebration of this honesty, depicting la noble incertitude du sport - the magnificent uncertainty of sport. Sport is surely a metaphor for life, and this prized collection of magazines additionally represents a valued narrative of my own existence.

Or rather our Dave Stoller impression ...

2012-04-17T14:30:00.024+01:00

Mike James just contacted me to reveal the true significance of the music used in that last post. Nothing to do with not choosing Gimme Shelter and going for something a little more sensible that reflects his (OK, our) advancing years, but rather the scene from Breaking Away, where Dave Stoller drafts the Cinzano truck along the highway.
Now I get it. Sometimes I think I'm the sentimental old fool and he's the dispassionate hard-nosed realist, but this all makes sense: an accident-induced softer side to him now re-revealed, something I haven't seen since the early 80s. I compare us to real racers at Roubaix, he's alluding to some rose-tinted fantasy world where riding bikes fast and making out you can speak Italian would mean you got the girl.
Get well soon Jamesy - that hip will be as good as new in no time.

Here's our Tom Boonen & Niki Terpstra Impression

2012-04-17T12:16:00.000+01:00

Nearly three years prior to Tomekke and his Dutch lieutenant Niki doing this very same thing at Roubaix, Jamesy and I were rehearsing the perfect 'just too strong' imperceptible escape from the lead group as we rode across Northern France. Clearly not the Hell of the North though, with its muddy cobbled farm tracks, but instead well-tarmacked smooth straight roads across extremely flat and sheltered farmland further west on Day Three of our 2009 A Travers La France trip. So straight in fact that there was absolutely no danger in (a) us riding close up behind the van, then overtaking it, and (b) Steve sitting on the roof and then inside the the van filming it. The link above already has a bit of footage, but here's a compilation courtesy of Jamesy which extends the clip and adds some music. Given our shared history, I'm surprised it wasn't Gimme Shelter by the Stones, but then again a bunch of 40-something has-beens poncing around on expensive bikes in gorgeous sunshine doesn't really jibe with "Ooo, storm is threatening, my very life today ..."

So, absolutely 100% just like the winning move in Paris-Roubaix 2012 then, eh? We can dream, can't we? And isn't great how a bit of fake tan can make you look just a little bit pro ...

Robert Millar, World Professional Road Race Championships, Sallanches 1980

2012-04-16T18:32:00.005+01:00

I already mentioned Robert Millar's fantastic ride at the World Championships on the last day in August 1980 in my earlier post, and then decided to re-read the relevant section in Richard Moore's excellent book "In Search of Robert Millar". To quote Millar from it:

"It was just untrue the way I felt when they droppped me" ... "For this race I just tried to ride my bike like in any other one, but it does something to you when you see riders like [that year's Tour de France winner Joop] Zoetemelk crack and you're sitting there comfortably. I'm not too disappointed. There was a time when I really thought I might get the bronze - not before the race of course. With a lap to go I felt all right, but then everything went."

Fifteen finishers from 107 starters - and Millar is still there on lap seventeen of twenty of the Sallanches circuit

Britain may well have a World Champion for 2011/12 in Mark Cavendish, but I'm of the opinion that Millar's 1980 result is far more impressive. When kids initially get into cycling, what do they ask? Firstly they'll want to know about your bike: how many gears has it got? Can you lift it up with one finger? Then talk will progress on to the stuff that we all find challenging on a bike: riding up hills, and the ones in the neighbourhood you have to get off and walk up. The Domancy climb looks like one big hill to me, and Millar will have been riding it on a 20-pounds-plus steel Peugeot bike, with, I'm guessing, a six-speed block ... heck, perhaps even a seven. Rohan will no doubt know for sure, but more than likely a Maillard Compact 700 'Super', driven by a Sedis Pro chain. Over to you on that one, Doctor D.

Millar achieved this eleventh place, over a murderously hilly 268km course, on his own - as with seemingly everything in his career - rather than with the aid of a well-drilled dedicated GB squad, supported during the season by a multi-million pound commercial outfit and various development programs. I'm not knocking Cav at all, since his is almost a different discipline to this type of riding, but Millar's finish was one achieved in a race where there would be no hiding places and little point in a 'train' to deliver you to the final 200 metres.

In Search of Robert Millar, by Richard Moore. Published by Harper Sport. ISBN: 978-0-00-723501-8

I've been waiting for over 30 years ...

2012-03-18T10:03:00.008+00:00

... to find some decent footage of Hinault winning the World's at Sallanches in the Alps in 1980.

Starting at 56 seconds into this first YouTube clip - I actually own this on VHS but no-one will transfer it to DVD for me because of copyright - you get Hinault talking about how he attacked Gianbattista Baronchelli on the Côte de Domancy. Noting that they changed gears at roughly the same time each lap on the climb, on the final time up Hinault waits until the Italian sits down to change gear, and instead of doing the same launches his attack to drop 'Gibi' and win the title in front of his home fans. Having abandoned the 1980 Tour in yellow due to tendinitis and berated in the French press as a result, Hinault gets his revenge by marshallsing Les Tricolores to destroy the field over what's considered the hardest course ever used for a World Championship. Demi-God status rightfully restored.

However, it's this new clip I've found that gives me goosebumps. Hinault's celebrated rage de vaincre certainly comes across in this video - at times his whole demeanour seems quasi-demonic - and it's at 22:39 in that we arrive at the chapter on his Worlds win. You'll hear the word consignes repeatedly - race orders - and it's Hinault that's giving them. A simple tactic: ride hard from the start, destroy the field on such a hard course, leave the rest to le patron. The slow-motion footage of Hinault cresting the climb with only the Italian for company is awesome. The soundtrack is just right, the images superb: Hinault's legs, powerful, tanned, glistening and affutées after 268km and seven-and-a-half hours of ferocious bike racing, capture everything that was great about this ride.

I'd take this opportunity to point out that whereas most of the field abandoned, a young neo-pro named Robert Millar stayed with Hinault until the final lap, eventually finishing 11th, exhausted. Is it just me or does this ride - hanging on to the Blaireau's coat-tails as he unleashes that summer's pent-up aggression to decimate the entire field in his chef d'œuvre - never seem to get the credit it deserves? That was real grinta from the then 21-year-old Scot, and should be far more widely publicised. If you're reading this Robert - I take my hat off to you. Clearly Hinault was on a mission that day - and Millar alludes to what a hard bastard the Breton was in the opening seconds of his own documentary 'The High Life'. Great ride, but no-one was going to best the Frenchman with a score to settle.

And You Thought They Had Problems With Fake Pinarellos ...

2011-09-24T14:47:00.020+01:00

Stolen carbon moulds might be one thing, but have you ever stopped to consider if your beloved old steel frame is really made from genuine Columbus SLX, or any other tubing pukkah enough to require a sticker to prove its provenance? Look at this array of beauties you could use to pimp up a fake bike in an attempt to fool your clubmates - pic from over at milanofixed.com. We've all done it, right?

I have vague memories of carefully removing the genuine Columbus SL sticker from my own blue 1984 Pinarello Treviso and replacing it with the much-more exotic, and contrasting red, SLX decal, just to make it look a bit more flash. Indeed, before I was a man of any sort of means, my first £20 road frame with proper racing angles and clearances close enough to use Campagnolo Gran Sport, and later Nuovo Record, calipers without resorting to pathetically emasculating drop-blots, was a Falk-tubed 1981 Pearson that I performed a homespun make-over on. A dull Sutton-built hack bike no longer good enough for Chris Sherwood, complete with bent front forks, transformed lovingly into a wannabe Colnago Mexico, in hommage to Giuseppe.

Everyone after 5th September '82 was, or would be, on a Colnago. By hook or by crook. The fact that mine was washed-out blue - rather than the gorgeous Team Del Tongo-Colnago deep wine red - was the least of its authenticity worries.

Ronde Van Vlaanderen Voor Wielertoeristen 2011, 140km

2011-09-19T15:05:00.000+01:00

Getting the three of us to Belgium - me, Neil and Egon - and to Ninove to sign on, and then over to my mate Lode's Nokernote B&B south-east of Brussels in time to get some quality rest and relaxation before Saturday's ride had been organised with military precision. To such a degree perhaps that Neil metamorphosed into a conscientious objector the day before: instead of being with us for dinner in Nunhead at around eight as planned, he rolls up from Nottingham gone eleven. Why? His passport - I'm surprised he remembered he needed to bring it - had expired. So, instead of an easy mid-morning drive together to Folkestone to get the remarkably reasonably-priced Eurotunnel shuttle, he had to go first thing in the morning back into Central London to collect an emergency passport (£££) and then get the Eurostar to Brussels (£££) where we'd divert in and pick him up. OK - we had a Plan B, so I was convinced that I should just relax a little and think to a future time when we'd look back and chuckle about how amusing the experience had been. Except now, Neil, armed with valid passport, arrives at St. Pancras, slightly cocky with his ordeal seemingly over, treats himself to a glass of Sancerre and some pan-fried halibut (he even sends us a photo, which we pick up around Calais), and promptly misses his train. As his adopted older brother, the faux sibling that got the stress gene, I'm not best pleased. I know that scares him.

This, however, is where our luck starts to change, since he's found the Eurostar staff on a good day: they stick him on the next train for free. So, rendez-vous arranged for Brussels Eurostar terminal later that day - bless the TomTom God and installed Maps of Western Europe - and then on to sign on and collect our frame numbers in an increasingly atmospheric Ninove. We're finally starting to feel like riders, and the passion for cycling surrounding the place is palpable. Even the fact I'd forgotten my spare tubes doesn't faze me, since we find a massive cycle warehouse near Nokernote that has everything we need, and a lot more besides. I note a display copy of Cor Vos' 'Emotions' on the counter, call Neil over to look at the amazing images inside, and the shopkeeper asks me if I'm riding the Ronde the next day. I tell him yes, he asks me if I like the book - the response is obvious - and next he says I can have it. I'm perplexed. Surely a joke (it was April Fool's Day after all), but no. I walk out of the place even more excited than it's possible to be, Cheshire-cat smile and a burning desire to lock myself away somewhere quiet and pore over the iconic photos. It'll constitute a wonderful addition to my cycling book, DVD and magazine collection, as detailed in the Ride Journal article I had published last year, and eventual pride of place in the B&B we, like Lode, plan to set up, but with an emphasis on bike riding.

Cor Vos "Emotions" Review from Repbrentzent on Vimeo.

So, quite an eventful trip to this point, and we haven't even started the ride. Next morning saw a necessarily early start, fantastic breakfast after a good night's kip and a bit of pre-race stretching, and off to Ninove around an hour back west. The short 5km warm-up ride from where we parked on the ring road and back into town was perfect, and then it was a case of just riding through the start area and we were on our way. I just wish, with hindsight, that we'd made a note of where we parked the bloody car. Not dropping a pin in the iPhone's Map app because I'm too tight to pay 'substantial roaming charges when using email, web browsing, and other data services' abroad is not something I want to repeat. I'd probably saved around £2, but lost six months off my life for releasing the inner child later that afternoon. I'm surprised I had the energy, to be honest; I was obviously 'overly tired', a reason parents often use to pathetically excuse their badly-behaved offspring.

We'd made an agreement to wait for each other and try an ride as a group as much as possible. Well, I'd insisted that we ride like this, and I'm so glad that Neil understands what I'm driving at, despite him being race-fit and clearly wanting to mix it up a bit and test himself. I've got the competitive instinct burning within me somewhere, but there are certain times, like today, where I want to ride more sociably, taking in the surroundings and trying to soak up the history as so magnificently detailed in 'Emotions'. We're here, in Flanders, about to ride over these iconic climbs that we've seen so often in magazines and on television, and I really do want to drink it all in, rather than be chewing the bars alongside 18,000 other nutters, oblivious to everything. If I want to ride like that, I could simply go out on an Old Port's club run on a Sunday morning. 09:30 at the bottom of Corkscrew Hill, West Wickham, for those interested in silent, painful anti-social experiences (apologies to my good friend Dave Hickman, but it is true).

Home-made routecard, intended for stem,
left languishing in rear pocket. Berk.

As well as a fabulous weekend away, I really wanted to get a taste of how hard this event is, an insight into what the pros put themselves through, but I don't think it's actually possible. Here we are, for the most part enthusiasts riding along in a good-natured group whose objective is to get to the finish in one piece, over a shorter course, with none of the pressure to perform or lose our livelihoods that those in the cash ranks have to endure. The next day's event would see a pack of marauding, focussed, competitive athletes, where winning is their job, racing - really racing, with all the contact, flicking, agression and mind games that implies - moving at ridiculous speeds, jockeying for position on these narrow, muddy cobbled lanes in what amounts to a bare-knuckle fist fight on two wheels. It'd be hard enough if were just that, but past editions have additionally been run in cold, lashing rain and sleet, freezing fingers and toes into useless, cold flesh-stumps, rendering the kinderkopjes even more treacherous. Imagine that, and contrast it with our bone-dry, 23-degree-sunshine unseasonal experience. So, at the finish in the late afternoon sun, tired and emotional, I stood amongst the elongated shadows of the ugly concrete lamp posts that populate the landscape around here, and realised that I hadn't got anywhere near them. Really, really, bloody hard men, these Flandriens, proper men, in the old-fashioned sense of the word - forget the asinine comments about shaved legs - and my sporting heroes. I now respect them even more, if such a thing were possible.

After a fairly benign preamble, the Rekelberg, Kaperij and Kruisberg passed somewhat uneventfully, the apparent ease of riding in the bunch and the comparative shallowness of these first climbs tempting me to consider maybe pushing harder. Should I get into one of the faster-moving groups we'd see come up on our left shoulders every now and then, to be a racing cyclist? I was beginning to question my negative strategy of riding so much within myself, but then I quickly reminded myself of what my untrained limits would be when faced with what I knew what was coming up on the route: the next climbs of the Paterberg and Koppenberg were everything I was expecting. Massively steep, these cobbled climbs were jam-packed with Wielertoeristen, despite the police and marshalls' attempt to hold us back and set us off in groups, each one trying to pick their way through the crowd, either on foot, or even more bravely, still on the bike. I'd been mortified at the thought of trashing the C40 in a pointless fall, but that's what was happening all around me: riders desperately attempting to get up the climbs, running out of momentum or running into other riders, and falling in painful slow motion either onto the muddy banks either side of the narrow lane, or out onto the bone-jarring cobbles, further holding up progress. I resigned myself to walking up these two, disappointed at the perceived failure but trying also to convince myself that there was nothing I could really do. Neil and Egon faired marginally better, but as I've said before, their superior fitness counts for a lot. Confidence included.

A welcome respite from the cobbles

Back to my ride. Ideally this would mean hands lightly gripping the middle of the bars or on the hoods, absorbing vibrations, riding a big gear hard and fast to effectively hover over the saddle and fly over the cobbles, per the well-documented advice. It's the only way to ride on this stuff, by throwing caution to the wind, not worrying about braking, but instead picking your line and pushing on, and pushing hard. I saw groups of riders doing exactly this, seemingly floating as their bikes clattered beneath them, passing me with apparent ease. Despite knowing it was wrong, my tentative, slower, almost fearful riding was counter-productive. A real dilemma: ride hard like you should, burn more energy and have nothing left for later, or ride like I was, conserving energy, but wasting more in controlling a slower-moving bike, nervously worrying about colliding with other riders as I was jolted left and right. I didn't have the legs, or perhaps the balls, in both senses of the word. My poor old nads (apologies) took a right hammering - the bouncing bike must have highlighted my less-than-perfect outstretched position, and I was left riding in severe discomfort for the last 70km or so. Maybe Rohan is actually right: what's a 1-metre-70 bloke doing riding a 140mm stem anyway? A Moser-esque flat back may look good, but unbearable discomfort downstairs isn't going to help you ride like him.

Foot out of the pedal near the top of the Kapelmuur, but at least I wasn't
seen to be walking ( ... when the photo was taken)

To be honest, in spite of me really being aware of where I was and what was going on in the intervening kilometres, coming to write it down now is a bit of a blur. Nothing stands out particularly other than a growing sense of possible cobble-induced crytochidism, a steep tarmacked descent where a rider in front misjudged a sweeping corner and ended up doing a headstand in a muddy field, and a cobbled descent that freaked the bejeezus out of me. How could you actually race down this? Is this what they mean by mental toughness? I rode down it at about 10km/h, absolutely paranoid, being bounced around all over the road. Racing down this in the wet? Lunacy. I do remember the run in to Geraardsbergen and beyond really well still, and was motivated by two thoughts: I was getting near the finish and still felt good, and more importantly would soon be riding on the iconic Muur and the final climb of the Bosberg. Not only was my heart pounding out of my chest from the effort, I was getting wonderfully excited and emotional about the prospect of finally seeing and riding on what, to bike riders all over the world, is seriously hallowed ground. I've done the Ventoux many times, L'Alpe d'Huez and the Galibier, and always thought of myself as a climber, but today I so wanted to be a one of those riders who lives for the Northern classics. Not riding up 20-kilometre long well-surfaced 7% mountain passes, but rather big-effort pushes to the top of comparitively short 18% cobbled bastards. A different climb, for a different type of rider, one who would undoubtedly be seen riding in the Autobus come July; here they are the Kings of the Road.

Christ: the Muur and Kapelmuur; the hair is standing up on the back of my neck just thinking about it now, six months on. Loads of spectators at the sides of the road, urging us on as if we were pros, and just as I hit the steep section of the climb as the cobbled road bears right towards the final slog to the chapel, I slowly pass a parapleagic in a handcycle grimmacing with the effort to get to the top. I'm humbled, speechless, but only for a moment. As I pass I well up with emotion once again, of near self-hate and guilt for being able-bodied but pathetic, for all the rides I've done where I climbed off, where I packed, where I threw in the towel. I'm riding next to someone who would probably pay me money to be able to feel the pain I have in my legs. My voice trembles as I shout something crap like 'Come On! Keep Going!' in English. I'm sure he understood just from the tone, probably had no need whatsoever for the encouragement, but I felt like I may have contributed in some way to the sense of genuine bonhomie that had pervaded the entire event, a feeling that you wanted everyone to finish, everyone to feel proud of themselves for completing the ride. OK, it isn't just the pros that are heros - there are plenty of them out riding today.

Up over the top of the Muur with only one dab due to a faller in front of me and a struggle to get my foot back in, down a short and steep white-knuckle drop that you never really appreciate on the TV, and along the straight undulating roads towards the Bosberg, a climb I don't remember looking especially hard, and even if it was, it'd be the final one. I was going to go nuts up it I decided, really empty the legs in one last push. The cobbles on the steeper section nearer the top were preceded by road-side placards with cartoon drawings of former winners - amusing - but I was focussed on the top, which I figured was no worse than a cobbled equivalent of the top of Beddlestead Lane, regularly used in the aforementioned Old Portlians' Sunday ride. Now was the time to go, and I sat back in the saddle and churned my way up and over the top, feeling strong, feeling elated.

Full beans on the Bosberg

The run-in to the finish for me was somewhat of an anti-climax, to be honest, filtering us back into the centre of Meerbeke via several different approaches it seemed, and predictably for me I got lost and ended up performing a couple of detours around bits of the town, riding through barriers as I saw fellow finishers on adjacent roads. Eventually I was on the right path to the aankomst, and surprisingly finished ahead of Neil and Egon: they'd waited for me at the top of the Bosberg, but I'd not managed to find them amongst the masses of riders up there. That's what I told them in any case, and they believed it. So, a hard-fought win for me, as I waited beyond the line for my runner-up compatriots. They'd done well, and I congratulated them on a hard-fought battle in which I had emerged the winner.

As mentioned before, after my almighty carbo-deficiency kiddie-tantrum about not being able to find the car, we packed up and made our way back to Lode's B&B, all of us tired and hungry, bilious on energy drink and gels, but very much 'up'. A superb evening meal of Belgian-beer meat stew made by Lode, some final packing up and we were all in bed early - overly tired, exhuasted, but still buzzing - ready for the early start the next day to get back over to Oost-Vlaanderen to watch the pros.

Lunch in Oudenaarde and a chance to catch the live action on the TV, and then a short hop to the Eikenberg nearby to watch how it should be done: where we'd been twiddling up what would be the pros' twelfth helling, here they were big-ringing up it as if it wasn't there. It looked as if the race was very much on at this point, as the strung-out bunch chased down a small breakaway. Watching blokes speed by on bikes is, to the untrained eye I imagine, quite an unedifying prospect. However, I've always found that it's the mounting anticipation as much as the passing riders that always remains in my memory of events I've attended. A roadside of ambling spectators, armed with their Vlaamse Leeuw flags and crackling radios, chatting to each other in the same way that they'd do on any Sunday stroll, are transformed, as if conducted by the increasingly loud chop of the approaching TV helicopter rotors, into an integral part of the race experience. On the road, a klaxoning phalanx of support vehicles opens the way, creating a moving wall of human and mechanical noise that gets louder and louder as it snakes its way towards you, flags and banners are raised from waist height and waved frantically, and the air bursts with a cacophony of cheering voices and clapping, air horns and race radios.

The riders pass, we're done, the enthusiasm of the previous few minutes replaced with a post-coital awkwardness: what do we do now? Right - how do I get down of this steep bank I climbed up to get the best view? It doesn't look that steep ...I start down the bank, lose my footing, fall on my backside, and to general laughter end up at the roadside, quicker than I had intended. To bastardise two famous WW1 poems, and I apologise unreservedly, there is some corner of my jeans that is forever Flanders Fields.

Will I do it again next year? I absolutely loved it this first time - Rohan has always maintained that the first time is really special, and a massively emotional experience - but recent news that the finish is moving and the Muur and Bosberg missed out, whilst probably not making the pro racing any less exciting (indeed, repeated climbs of the viciously steep and cobbled Paterberg will be an awesome spectacle) has certainly left me with second thoughts. For me, and all the years I've watched the event, it's these last two climbs, and in particular the Kapelmuur, that have symbolised the whole race: they are certainly the ones I'll always remember most from our trip. To ride the event again and not experience the deep satisfaction of cresting the both of them just wouldn't be a true Ronde Van Vlaanderen.

Giro 2011, Stage 11 Finish at Castelfidardo

2011-06-09T21:55:00.300+01:00

As soon as the Giro 2011 route was announced - and in a similar vein to the Tirreno-Adriatico, I'd be scouring Gazzetta dello Sport for news, any news, or even rumours for months beforehand - Kelda and I booked Ryanair flights to Ancona as usual, to stay in our caravan beside our guesthouse project in Sant'Angelo in Pontano. According to the map, the Giro was coming through our village! I could already see myself getting involved with our small 1400-person community, tying bunting between buildings, wrapping old bicycles in pink crêpe paper for display in shop windows, and making 'Forza Scarponi!' banners for local Lampre hero Michele.

Before

So, whilst in Barcelona for work a few weeks before our trip, I bought a copy of Ciclismo a Fondo with its Guia al Giro, and on reading I'm sure they've made a mistake: now the route is the one detailed below, and there's nothing out on the web to say why there's been a change. I know that certain Giro stages had been changed (even up until the day before in the case of the stage over the Monte Crostis in 2011, and in dubious circumstances for the Stelvio in 1984), but I'm still struggling to find an explanation as to why the route suddenly changed to this:

After

For us the big difference is that the route doesn't make the originally planned move inland towards the Sibillini Mountains and through our village, but instead tends to shadow the Adriatic coastline on its journey towards the arrivo at Castelfidardo. OK, disappointed, but it's still not that far for us to go - 40 minutes? - and see the stage finish; it would still be great day out, and the weather provided us with a gloriously hot, cloud-free day. Walking up the rise from the valley to the hill-top town centre, it was clear that this would be no easy finish: I'd say the last 3km are all uphill at around 6%, with the final 400-metre ramp to the line somewhere around 15%. We found a spot and got exactly what we were hoping for: a place at the barriers at 125m to go, opposite a bar with a toilet (never underestimate the importance of this when you have a bladder as I do), so as to provide the required relief after downing a deliciously chilled large bottle of Birra Moretti. It hadn't even had its price inflated especially for the Giro - another pleasant surprise.

The finishing area was packed with good-natured fans who'd welcome any news as to what was happening out on the road from people inside their nearby houses and bars, or those with connection to the 'net.

I'm hoping the short bit of video I took on our mobile phone captures what I believe it is that makes going to see a bike race so enthralling. Most British non-cycling friends admit to having no idea what all the fuss is about; those who, as almost accidental spectators by dint of proximity, got to see the Tour's visit in 1994 or 2007 have all said that they loved it despite not really understanding what was happening. They might know that in the Tour the leader wears the yellow jumper (thanks Ned), that Sean Yates is local to the Ashdown Forest, and that Mark Cavendish is gonna win right?, but all of them, like me, state that they also love everything that goes on around the race.

There have been occasions where I've stood on a mountainside in the Alps for hours after a seemingly endless trek up to my chosen vantage point, to be rewarded by the ephemeral passing of a blur of brightly coloured riders, yet this still has the power to give me goosebumps, for me to lose a bit of self control, bellowing all manner of stream-of-consciousness shouts of encouragement, competing with the din of like-minded fans, the passing cacophony of team and race organiser cars, motorbikes and low-flying helicopters. To spend this much time waiting could rightly be considered an utter waste of time for very little reward, but this is to ignore what bike racing is all about. It's not just the much-anticipated arrival of the race and riders, but also the whole build-up to the race passing by that I think is so attractive, and the role it plays in the communities touched by its presence. It's The Jubilee Street Party, Carnival Time and The Big Lunch, all rolled into one. The 'think-global-act-local' Zeitgeist is very much alive here, being played out for free on the public roads that pass in front of our doorways. Communities, associations and schools coming together and preparing for weeks on end, organising street parties, hanging bunting, preparing food for cooking on BBQs - to create a true celebration of their town or village, the things that makes it unique and them proud, and a chance to meet, eat, drink and chat with people one doesn't ordinarily see. I can't think of many other free events that have the power to draw such a disparate crowd of people together in such a positive way. That's what also makes cycle racing such an awesome spectacle.

There are more pictures, commentary and analysis of the Stage 11 finish available at the rather excellent Podium Cafe website - far better than anything I managed to grab as I tried to soak in the aforementioned atmosphere rather than focussing behind a camera.

Post Scriptum: writing an update to this post in 2012, the ensuing Contador 'tainted steak' scandal meant that the UCI banned the Spaniard and stripped him of his wins, and 'our' Scarponi is now listed in the record books as the winner of the 2011 Giro. And that's probably about as much enjoyment as he'll get from it, as do we: his name in a book and a bunch more UCI World Tour points, rather than being able to enjoy the well-deserved accolades out on the road during and in the immediate aftermath of the race. Peccato.