A man walks into a pub...........

I'm torn with this post - which is the better story?.

Story 1. Over tired from a poor nights sleep I nevertheless kept my promise to Keith that I would support him in his quest to win the the latest round of the Rollapaluza national championships being held at the Half Moon Pub in Herne Hill (fortuitously nearby from my side of things). Already feeling the affects of 'The Hell of the Ashdown' brave Keith stepped up to the plate for his first go - 21.58! fastest of the night so far. We watched, I drank Guiness, Keith drank energy gels (what a pro - SIS if you must know) as riders came and went in the qualifiers with only one rider topping the Vitsoe CC rider's time (and he had a coach with him adjusting his saddle!) Next round - no problem for Keith but a big one for me - a promise kept to the beloved meant that I had to be home by 10 for future star's feed. I had to leave our hero on his todd at the bar awaiting his destiny. And what a destiny - the finals. Up against one of the other 'coached' (is there something a bit sad about having a coach in the back room of a pub - I think yes) brave Henderson lost by .35 of a second but still posted his fasted time of the night at 21.08. The man is fast becoming a bit of an idol. Talking of idols........

Story 2. Whilst deep in the white heat of battle in the cauldron that is the Half Moon function room a slight frisson filled the air when in walked a little man inconspicuously dressed. Said man took a seat that had been reserved on the raised seating area and proceeded to enjoy the spectacle of the evening. I being the manchild that I am could not believe my eyes and gurgled like future star after a 2 hours suck session. Plucking up the courage I approached said man with pen and paper and asked him to sign his autograph for my now 2 sons (having texted the news to the Correspondent I was on word of honour to get his little star an autograph - I am now officially 'owed big time'). Said man obliged in the most courteous manner and we exchanged a few pleasantries about his teeth problems and his possibility of missing La Primevera due to lack of training. A shake of hands and the meeting was over - a minute of his time will be a lifetime of a memory. Said man??? Mark Cavendish. Yes, Mark Cavendish was the Half Moon Pub for the Rollapaluza (and I didn't have a camera!). Chapeau!

It's a man thing - isn't it?

Blimey, it's been nearly a month since my last nugget (although judging by the other blogs I have touched in on it seems the norm to take a break over the festive period and beyond...way beyond). Though most people may have used the conventional calendar (hopefully not Cycling Weekly's piss poor effort) to measure the passing of time I choose a far more reliable method - the length of my leg hair. Every morning when I step into the shower I look down and see the sorry reminder of my 2 wheeled inactivity - flowing blond tresses from my lower calves. NO MORE!! I am today resolving to return to both waxing lyrical and waxing my pins - well, not actually waxing because, despite my sadistic beloved's attempts to put me through the hell of tearing them out, I prefer to use Kiehls shaving cream. Not only does it give a silky smooth touch but also a tantalising tingle. It's a 100% masculine thing to do.

PS - Not my pants

Pitter, patter

Pitter, patter, pitter, patter...... No, it's not the sound of tiny feet (as if the boy could walk - he's not even been fitted for his new Colnago yet), it's the sound of rain, constant rain falling during the festive period. Today has to have been the absolute non plus ultra of shitty days with it seemingly never breaking into daylight. There have been only 2 days worthy of a good ride this holiday and both have been preceded by approximately 37 minutes sleep on the night before (why does he sleep all day and then decide it's time to talk at midnight?!). I worry, oh how I worry as I lie awake at night listening to the now 24/7 central heating draining my wallet ('he needs to be warm, dear') that things may never return to normal and that my legs will simply whither away and I will never get out on the road again for anything longer that my 45 minute commute. For this reason and this reason alone, I look forward to next week's return to work and my enthusiastic embrace of winter commuting.

The latest member of the metropeloton

So, finally, there is a new member of the team - Joel. He's a bonny little chap and I'm feeling pretty confident about his two wheeled potential. So far he's mastered the bidon technique, has no qualms about relieving himself whilst in the saddle (or cot, or fathers arms) and, after a brief course of antibiotics, is no stranger to the needle and will therefore be comfortable amongst the 'doctors' of modern cycling. Just between us, my beloved thinks that the name Joel came from a brainwave of cute names but little does she know that it actually comes from one of, if not the most vivid memory of a boyhood watching Le Tour. In 1989 Joël Pelier won a stage of Le Tour and immediately after crossing the line he fell into the arms of a media scrum only to shout 'mon père, mon père' it struck a deep cord and one day I dream that my Joel will cross the line, any line, in victory and cry out for me. Thank you my beloved - a greater gift you could not give x

The Closet Obsessive

It's a common fact that cyclists are an obsessive bunch of freaks at the best of times (latest kit, lightest weight, best eppilation technique etc, etc, etc) and I consider myself to be no different to any other. Well, actually I do consider myself to be slightly more obsessed than your average obsessed obsessive and, if proof were needed, this picture is it. For the last 4 weeks I have toiled, no I HAVE SLAVED over this f**king mdf monolith! For a man who has an issue putting air into his tyres somehow I had the bright idea that I would save money and prove to myself that I was a real man and build a cupboard. So drill, screw, sand, swear, drill again, screw some more (the cycling gloves came in handy to protect my delicate palms), swear, sand, swear, swear, chisel and SWEAR I did until you see what you see today. It's raw (like my nerves) and unpainted but it is solid and I genuinely think it will still be standing next week. And so, at least until the big arrival (Thursday is the due date!) I can now say that I will return to my forte of cynical scribe and never, EVER, pass a Homebase without a chill running down my spine. (PS - I have been up to some cycling stuff, some REAL GOOD cycling stuff, which will be revealed later this week)

The Flandrian cycle to work scheme

There was a negative (what else would you expect?) piece in the Evening Standard this week about how the Velib scheme is being underwritten by disgruntled Parisians due to 8000 being trashed or stolen and another 18000 needing repairs (so that means it's probably more like a third of that figure in truth) and how this would be the same when the scheme is launched in London. I despise (a strong word but chosen with thought and first hand experience) the negative sensationalism of most of today's newspapers - in a city of nearly 12 million people and over 16 million tourist visitors every year it's a pretty low percentage by my reckoning and one well worth paying. However, you do have to wonder where the stolen ones end up so hence the true motive behind today's post. The picture wasn't taken on a trip to Flanders (but oh how I wish it had been), no it was taken in London - it's either somebody who has the world's longest commute or another burden to the Flandrian tax payer.

Designer's bikes

Another (particularly) busy week over and yet again I find myself having not managed a new post for 7 days. Never mind, I'm here now and this week amongst an exhibition opening and a trip to see the local maternity ward (modern and clean but also stuffy and with that classic hospital smell which reminds me of Horlicks made using bleach) I somehow found myself at the Royal Designers for Industry annual shindig (obviously there as a guest rather than on merit). It was a true galaxy of the great, the good and the egocentric of the design world and I thoroughly enjoyed it. One of the reasons for this was that I sat next to one of this country's leading lights in product design, Sam Hecht (or Sam Hecht RDI to give him his official title on the evening). Knowing that I could not bluff my way through dinner by solely speaking about design related topics (which would have most likely got me no further than the bread roll before the starter) I cunningly turned the conversation to cycling and, in particular: was Sam a cyclist? Indeed he was (although he did look a little lost when I mentioned the name Colnago - I ask you!) and I can't tell you how relieved I was to have found some common ground before we'd reached the main course. His bike of choice? The Trek District. One might sigh 'quelle surprise' at this choice as if ever there was a 'designer's' bike then the District has got to be it (in the same way that for a brief period in the mid 90's every designer seemed to ride an Aprilia Moto). However it is undeniably a great looking bike and totally practical for the urban commuter (especially if your commute is from Primrose Hill to Clerkenwell - moi? envious? oui!) being single speed and belt driven - which is something that I cannot understand why more manufacturers are not producing, although I know that a new single speed belt driven Moulton is in the offing (purrrrrrrrrr).