I'm still alive

Cue Pearl Jam......

Sigh, it's been embarrassingly long since I even looked at the blog let alone scribed. Even now I have to confess that it is only a combination of night on my own combined with the feeling of disgust that the BBC dare to show Raiders of the Lost Ark on prime time TV (it's 30 years old!) and the finish of the darts for tonight (an extreme end of the spectrum from cycling but utterly, utterly perfect for post Christmas blues) that has made me log on and tap.

Anyway, I'll say it now - I HAVE NOT LOST MY LOVE OF THE TWO WHEELS. If anything my love has grown to such an utter state of obsession that I spend all of my time either reading or thinking about it but sadly, at the moment, simply not enough time actually doing it.

This love was never more evident than last week when I managed to get out for 2 hours in what seemed like the height of summer in comparison to recent weeks (it was 7.5' on my Garmin). I'd eased off on the tyre pressure a tad, rubbed in my Rapha embrocation (tingly!) and just rode steady. It was a ride of total bliss - the legs pumped with just the right level of ache, the wheels rolled and I just sat in a zone of total harmony with the Extreme C for 2 hours of total escapism. Bliss.

I'll be ramping up the posts again as the season starts and I resolve to get back in the groove but, in the meantime I will leave a question for anybody who ever stumbles across this site -

Why isn't there a decent book available about either Gino Bartali (he drank 20 espressi a day - he's earned a good read!) or Bernard Hinault - truly shocking!

Damn the bloody Queen

First off: apologies dear reader as I have forsaken my duties over the past month and it has not been due to lack of cycling related activity. A quick synopsis -

Rapha ride - rode it (what a nice chap Dan Craven is)

Herne Hill velodrome - pledged to save it (£50, actually)

Chasing Legends - watched it (preferred Overcoming)

Bicycle Store - discovered it (that's what a city bike store should be)

14 Bike Company - revisited it (oh dear - what went wrong?)

Rapha Softshell - acquired it (don't ask)

PM - crashed it

So you'll see it's been a busy few weeks and the more alert of you will note the last item on the list. Yes, I have to report that I have experienced my first tumble on the urban commute. A right bloody pain in more ways than one as it was a very wet, dark and windy evening on Friday and despite telling myself I was being all 'Flandrian' by deciding to ride home in it I wish I had taken the less wet option of taking the train.

The incident occurred in probably the most famous and poorest lit part in the whole of London town - right outside Buckingham Palace. What is it with these royals? Not only is the Mall and Birdcage walk a pitch black abyss but so too is the little cut through St James Park - Marlborough Road. I can't imagine that Liz, Phil, Chuck and Cam all sit on their DFS La z boys in their respective front rooms thinking 'Bloody Hell, those street lamps are glaring out my plasma' or do they?

Anyway, darkness and rain contributed to the fact that I was side swiped off onto the asphalt with an annoying 'God, I could have swerved that it I had had an extra second' feeling. Driver was honest and contrite, witness was helpful and happy to witness, head, arm, hip and ankle were bloody sore. Of course it's hard to assess the damage in pitch darkness but once I had regained composure and got the driver details I had a quick look - front brake cable had popped out (I popped it back in - rather proud of myself (it's true)), bottle cage was mangled (I bent it back into shape and replaced my crest-fallen bidon and in true Flandrian style I rode home - Johan who?

Next day a quick inspection revealed the PM to be totally unscathed - what a machine. I had not been so luck - road rash, a potholed elbow, cracked helmet (but not head) and sore ankle went to show that I took the bullet for the PM on that rainy night in London town.

However, the story endeth not. After a Saturday spent in the lone company of Futurestar (it get's to a point where he can scream as much as he likes and throw his bloody food all over the place if he won't eat it as far as I'm concerned) I awoke on Sunday with a very sore rib cage. A trip to the bathroom and a near faint confirmed I ought take myself off to A&E for a once over. As I waited (and waited, and waited) to be seen I was approached by a friendly young chap who had a look of 'Hello, mate' on his face that was so convincing I found myself scrambling the memory for who, where, when and why. It turned out that I didn't know him from Adam but he was working for a production company making a documentary about the hospital (sorry, forgot to say that it was Kings, Camberwell - birthplace of Futurestar (no blue plaque I noticed)) for Channel 4 - would I ming being filmed and wearing a radio mic. I played it cool ('What, me? On telly? Me? Telly? On it?, Me? etc, etc) and strapped the mic on quicker than a Colombian supergrass. After waiting and waiting some more (had the telly people told the doctors to make me wait until I erupted in a rage thus giving them something more juicy to film? I held my nerve, reader) I went into the booth and was stretched prodded and manipulated to check all was in tact and indeed it was so panic over. As a precaution the nurse (male - nice chap - probably on his best behaviour for the telly) took my pulse and blood pressure. Here is the best bit - when taking my pulse he actually said 'Wow', yes, 'Wow' followed by 'I wish I had a heart rate like that'. At that moment I could not help but smile at the camera - what an athlete I thought to myself and now the whole watching world will know it too (watch out for the programme - it airs in the spring apparently).

As if to top it off he then proceeded to dress my elbow wound with proper dressing and one of those fishnetty bandage things just like the pro's wear (as I pointed out to him), no doubt my childish glee at said dressing will also be caught on camera for all to see (and mock).

So, I have been a busy boy, haven't I?

Lest we forget

Sometimes as a blogger the well is dry and sometimes one's cup runneth over.

Today is a case of the latter with 3 things that I could wax lyrical about - the World Championships (chapeau Thor - as your speed has diminished your guile has increased), The Ride of the Falling Leaves (yes, I made it through the rain) and the Herne Hill cycle jumble.

Whilst I will return to the ROTFL later on this week (hopefully) I thought today's post had to be dedicated to the cycle jumble. I love it, a true haven for the geek, loner and occasional loon (I guess I must fall into one of the categories as I always go to them when they are on). However, sometimes in life you come across a loon so magnifique that you simply have to stand aghast at his sheer balls out, fuck you lunacy. So, behold the below (it was that good that I didn't want to show you at the start of the post which makes this somewhat unique in the history of this blog)



In case you can't quite read it (or believe your eyes) it simply reads -

'Dura Ace but Pearl Harbour must never be forgotten'

I feel I risked my life to take that picture (or at least my beloved does) but sure you will agree that this is the non plus ultra of cycling loons.

The long and winding road

Next weekend is my season's goal (actually it's the only one I've had this season). It doesn't involve a long flight to Geelong, more a gentle roll down the hill to Herne Hill velodrome (save it!) where awaits the start line of The Ride of the Falling Leaves.

Whilst I have no illusions that I will better last years phenomenal 18th place (3hrs 40mins - it is my finest hour BAR NONE) I do still want to make a decent stab at it and attain gold standard (4hrs). Therefore I have been trying hard to stick to a training plan (if you call eating dried fruit and doing a few extra laps of Regents Park a training plan) in order to get race fit. Today was my last long spin before I 'taper' (love it - so pro!) which involved a demi-recce of the actual course.

Now, there has always been one hill on the course (which is also on my regular ride route) that I have hated - I'm sure we all have one and Hang Grove Hill is without doubt mine. It has a long sweeping descent to it's approach which before most hills would be a joy were it not for the pot-holed, Zipp-rattling, lumpy run of tarmac that forms it. I live in constant fear of a snapping fork or a Voigtesque face plant. Then begins the climb - equally pot-holed and grippier than Futurestar when he doesn't want to get in the swimming pool (ouch!).

So, imagine my utter, utter elation today as I steeled myself after successfully negotiating the descent. Ahead of me lay not a pot-holed ascent but a black, liquorice strip of sheer heaven. Hang Grove Hill has been resurfaced and is beautiful. It's made the pain so, so enjoyable that it has now become my favourite leg burner in a transformation last seen when Jesus turned the water into wine - and oh what a vintage! Roll on next Sunday.

*Photo for illustration purposes - if I got off to take an actual pic I would never have gotten back on

Are you sitting comfortably?.........

.....then (despite my beloved's protestations) I will begin.

Over the past months I have fussed and fretted like the Cannibal on a cannabis come down about my riding position and resultant sore lower back. I have measured every limb and inside leg, put saddle fore, aft, up and down and all to seemingly little success. I contacted a bike fitter only for him to tell me he had been thrown out of his workshop and couldn't help - he was cheap as it appears am I when it comes to spending money on something that actually could stop me from walking like a 98 year old rice farmer for the rest of my life. I took the matter no further.

Then, whilst riding back from work the other week it dawned on me to take radical action. I share this with you dear reader (or at least the slightly more hirsute of you) as it is my duty as a frank and cuttingly insightful scribe to do so. I took razor (electric, of course) to a certain part of my anatomy that does not oft see the light of day. Let's simply say that I don't know the anatomical name for it but the Maltese have a word for it and that word (forgive me if spelt incorrectly) is widgormi (aka biffin). At first I was tentative as once done there would be no going back for fear of constantly fidgeting but oh what a difference! There sheer comfort of not having the feeling that ones derrieiur is on fire after an hour in the saddle has completely distracted me from my backache - it's genius, simple, eppilated genius, chamois creamed genius.

So, to celebrate and really take this discovery to the max I have invested in a lovely new Prologo Pro Scratch Ti and a pair of Assos F1 Mille shorts - I am in absolute pedal-perched Nirvana.

Now - if only I can think of the best place to shave to stop the ache of rocking Futurestar to sleep.

Brightening up a ride on the bus

I had a rest day today. Always a pain as it means spending £8.60 on a travelcard and then spending the day knowing I have to face the scrum of Oxford Circus in the evening (they may have made it look like Shibuya but in Shibuya they have about 300 entrances to the station instead of the 2 that are currently in operation here!).

Today was an added stress as the trains were cancelled meaning a bus journey to Brixton was thrown into the commute bargain. So, imagine my glee as I sat on the top deck and looked out to see Team Garmin Transitions (I’m Tyler Farrar…..) cruising down the road. Not something that you see in the Brixton rush hour traffic every day.

Oh how I wished I had been on the PM – I imagined myself pulling up alongside, tapping the window, being handed a sticky bidon by a trusty soigneur and completing my journey to work. One can but dream

Au revoir Laurent

For the past couple of weeks I have been rounding off my evening by reading a chapter or 2 of 'We were young and carefree', the autobiographical account of Laurent Fignon's career. So yesterday's sad news of his death made reading a little more poignant as I arrived at the chapter about the twilight of his career.

Whilst (and sadly I am no exception here) many write of his 8 second Le Tour loss to Greg Lemond, you have to chapeau! the man in a grande way for his palmares and also for what he brought to the sport. As a poseur I think he is up there with some of the very best in terms of having a totally individual style - those glasses, that hair - c'est chic n'est-ce pas?

There's no denying that he was an awkward man to deal with and, like all greats, had an ego and a sense of what he deemed to be correct to match his stature as a rider. Read the book - he doesn't always come across as the sort of person you would lend your bidon to but it's still a great read (and it also makes me desparate for an English book about The Badger).