If you have never seen this guy before, well, wow...
Monday, 9 November 2009
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Breakfast of the Champions
Cyclists are fussy fellows. The more obsessive of them have been known to weigh each mouthful of food before cooking, write down the number of calories consumed and factor in how many hours on a turbo will rid us of it. The cycling mags are full of advice on nutrition - which supplements to take to help fast muscle twitch; new studies into the right percentage of protein in relation to carbs; how many litres of sports' gloop to drink whilst riding; the value of green tea in relation to lactic build up and countless countless other handy hints.
As the wind bites and the legs flag out there a middle aged man's mind turns to breakfast. Most start the ride with something in them. I favour a bowl of porridge and a cup of rocket fuel strength coffee. Others prefer a hastily stuffed banana, whilst other still prefer to suckle on gels with donkey spunk-like consistency . But all know that these are merely hors d'oevre to the main breakfast. The fuel that only the virtuous can truly consume.
If not all rides lead to Barling, all rides end up in front of a pot of tea and, hopefully, food. Some swear by cake and I can see its attractions - there is only one thing the English do better than cake - preferably coffee and walnut in artery hardening slabs. But, for me, I truly need something a bit more, erm...substantial.
The true home of the Leigh Riders, as we have decided to call ourselves, is The Barge(prop Jason White, one of Essex's finest cyclists himself). One of a row of cafes built into arches under a sloping road, this is the spiritual heartland for us. As we arrive, the waitress dumps an urn of tea which she regularly replenishes with nary a word of complaint and then listens to our specific dietary requirements - brown or white, poached or scrambled, can i have that with mushrooms and not tomatoes, any chance of a river of brown sauce? There's as many breakfast varieites as there are cyclists.
We sit and the steam slowly rises from us, in states of undress, the early morning denizens of the cafe slightly bemused by grown men in skin tight lycra and socks over their shoes, we devour on the Barge's finest, regardless. The talk turns ribald, the day's near misses, leg fades and moments of heroism relived. It's a time to hear arcane component talk, regale each other with opinions about the latest edition of Cycling Weekly and generally talk bollocks before we re-climb on to our bikes and slowly slink back up the hill and back to our grown up lives and families.
thanks to MF for the photos
Thursday, 20 August 2009
Fixie Fun
Because it's the holidays I have a lot of time on my hands to watch all manner of nonsense on youtube. Check this out:
Friday, 14 August 2009
Thursday, 13 August 2009
Fixed
My latest toy...
... built by the guys at 14 bike co in Truman's Brewery, just off Brick Lane http://14bikeco.wordpress.com/
Gran compe hubs
Tange headset
Sugino crank set
Nitto bar and stem
Steel frame by 14 bike - Reynolds 631
Power Grip pedals
Expect my first post about fixeds to be about how easy it is to seriously injure yourself whilst scratching your bum and forgetting to pedal!
Summer
Richard Williams, one of cycling's finest writers finished his Tour de France reports this year like this:
"With the end of the Tour de France," the novelist Paul Fournel wrote, "the summer reaches its moment of sadness: long, hot afternoons and no longer anything to get your teeth into."
For anyone with even a passing interest in cycling then Le Tour is the centrepoint of the year. 21 days of racing around one of the most beautiful countries in the world. 21 different battles. Obviously the fight for yellow grabs, quite rightly, the attention, but like a well made drama there are sub stories bubbling away. This year for us brits there were two great stories that developed as the weeks went on - would Cav get green and would Wiggins hold on for a top ten place. As it was Wiggins surpassed even the most optimistic with a fourth place, equalling Robert Millar's heroics back in the nineties. Most heroically holding on to his position as he fought his way back into contention on the lunar landscape of Ventoux - infamously the site of Tommy Simpson's demise and where the wind can knock a man sideways.
Cav didn't get green but did rack up six wins, many mutter that the race commissars purposely judged him harshly, docking valuable points for unfair practices in the home straight but the truth is that, at present, he is the fastest man in the world, and he is British!
I was pondering on the rightness of the French being custodians of the greatest race. After all the birthplace of revolution seems somehow apt. after all, don't we all try and live by the three tenets of 1789? Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite? For what gives us greater freedom than the bike itself. Unchaining us from our desks and commuter lives. Allowing us the chance to soar and dream. Climbing hills and feeling like Brad on Verbier. Surely if that isn't 'Liberte', then what is? The bike makes us free, liberates the worker from work, gives us autonomy and the opportunity to move under our own efforts. It is the instrument of the working class pedaling away from their smog filled towns and into the freedom of the open air. Graeme Fife called it 'the beautiful machine' and he is right, beautiful in its simplicity and beautiful in what it has to offer.
And what of 'Egalite'? Well, I would argue that there is no greater leveller than the bike. It is no respecter of reputations and what our workaday lives might remunerate us for. The banker can ride side by side with binman and all that matters is whether one can take their turn at the front into the wind. The phrase 'don't you know who I am?' is entirely irrelevant on the bike. Your reputation, bank balance, posh office aren't going to help you much. It's down to how much is left in your legs and whether you can convince yourself to dig that bit deeper. In our group we have City workers, carpenters, teachers, taxmen, artists and countless other ways of getting paid. Yet I believe we are all equal through the bike.
Fraternite? Those self same blokes are a brotherhood of sorts. First to offer a spare inner tube, to drop back and ride with those who have blown up. Pop round with books and mags when bones are broken. For all the rugged individualism that cycling can engender there is definitely a feeling that riding in a gang creates a sense of togetherness, a sense of fraternal friendship. We know that if one of us had a chain snap in the middle of nowhere that we have a list of names in our phones that we could rely on to turf out and get us home.
So, when they stormed the Bastille and brought down the repressive Monarchy of Louis XVIII little did the Parisians know that within just over a hundred years they would be giving birth to greatest sporting spectacle that manages to survive despite the best efforts of some of its more stupid partcicipants...but that is another story.
"With the end of the Tour de France," the novelist Paul Fournel wrote, "the summer reaches its moment of sadness: long, hot afternoons and no longer anything to get your teeth into."
For anyone with even a passing interest in cycling then Le Tour is the centrepoint of the year. 21 days of racing around one of the most beautiful countries in the world. 21 different battles. Obviously the fight for yellow grabs, quite rightly, the attention, but like a well made drama there are sub stories bubbling away. This year for us brits there were two great stories that developed as the weeks went on - would Cav get green and would Wiggins hold on for a top ten place. As it was Wiggins surpassed even the most optimistic with a fourth place, equalling Robert Millar's heroics back in the nineties. Most heroically holding on to his position as he fought his way back into contention on the lunar landscape of Ventoux - infamously the site of Tommy Simpson's demise and where the wind can knock a man sideways.
Cav didn't get green but did rack up six wins, many mutter that the race commissars purposely judged him harshly, docking valuable points for unfair practices in the home straight but the truth is that, at present, he is the fastest man in the world, and he is British!
I was pondering on the rightness of the French being custodians of the greatest race. After all the birthplace of revolution seems somehow apt. after all, don't we all try and live by the three tenets of 1789? Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite? For what gives us greater freedom than the bike itself. Unchaining us from our desks and commuter lives. Allowing us the chance to soar and dream. Climbing hills and feeling like Brad on Verbier. Surely if that isn't 'Liberte', then what is? The bike makes us free, liberates the worker from work, gives us autonomy and the opportunity to move under our own efforts. It is the instrument of the working class pedaling away from their smog filled towns and into the freedom of the open air. Graeme Fife called it 'the beautiful machine' and he is right, beautiful in its simplicity and beautiful in what it has to offer.
And what of 'Egalite'? Well, I would argue that there is no greater leveller than the bike. It is no respecter of reputations and what our workaday lives might remunerate us for. The banker can ride side by side with binman and all that matters is whether one can take their turn at the front into the wind. The phrase 'don't you know who I am?' is entirely irrelevant on the bike. Your reputation, bank balance, posh office aren't going to help you much. It's down to how much is left in your legs and whether you can convince yourself to dig that bit deeper. In our group we have City workers, carpenters, teachers, taxmen, artists and countless other ways of getting paid. Yet I believe we are all equal through the bike.
Fraternite? Those self same blokes are a brotherhood of sorts. First to offer a spare inner tube, to drop back and ride with those who have blown up. Pop round with books and mags when bones are broken. For all the rugged individualism that cycling can engender there is definitely a feeling that riding in a gang creates a sense of togetherness, a sense of fraternal friendship. We know that if one of us had a chain snap in the middle of nowhere that we have a list of names in our phones that we could rely on to turf out and get us home.
So, when they stormed the Bastille and brought down the repressive Monarchy of Louis XVIII little did the Parisians know that within just over a hundred years they would be giving birth to greatest sporting spectacle that manages to survive despite the best efforts of some of its more stupid partcicipants...but that is another story.
Thursday, 21 May 2009
Spring Classics
Come April and I am usually stuck in a classroom trying to get a bunch of kids to face up to the fact that examinations are rapidly approaching. Then there is the marking, the demands for extra lessons and the frenzied writing of reports. In fact, if you are not careful you can miss the start of spring completely.
Fortunately I have a great view of a row of conker trees right outside my classroom window to remind me that the world is wakening once more. And with this comes the unmistakeable fact that it's time to start getting an evening ride in now the light is good.
To sneak off at the close of day, togged out in my finest Rapha, shaking off the lycra jokes from close minded colleagues is a particular joy. As each pedal stroke pushes me further from work and into the countryside, I can feel work leaving my mind. Before long I am amidst the froth of hawthorn, the frilly pink blossoms of apple and pear trees and the unmistakeable daub of rape seed. Suddenly, the body responds, Spring lifts and the suppleness that had been missing all through winter returns.
These are generally solo rides and are accompanied by the rider's great friend - the iPod shuffle. Now I know some who say that riding while listening to music is tantamount to signing a death warrant but done carefully it can change the way you whip through the countryside. One ear in, like race radio and with the volume loud enough to still hear psychotic BMW drivers behind, it truly is a gift. However, it does take quite some skill to work out what to put on the thing - just because you like Kate Bush doesn't mean you want to hear her reminding you not to give up when your legs are burning from one too many hills; jazz is all well and good but when the wind is on the sea front Dave Brubeck's jaunty swing isn't going to cut it. No, Kraftwerk knew what they were doing when they combined their motorik sound to the beautiful machine in Tour De France.
Many is the time that the lucky accident of the shuffle segues one great track to another - The curly haired boogie of T.Rex's Children of the Revolution moving smoothly into New Order's Temptation and then whacking the tempo up with It's Tricky by Run DMC. The miles are flying by, the cadence matching the bpm and the all those natural chemicals soar through the veins. You can do anything in this state, certainly squeeze in that extra loop and still be home before your dinner is spoilt. Maybe even race this year...
Obviously, the other great thing about Spring is the return to proper bike racing. The Spring Classics are one day races in France, Belgium and The Netherlands usually involving particularly nasty stretches of road that are either cobbled, steep or both. The most famous is Roubaix as immortalised in One Sunday in Hell, a beautifully shot movie which poetically describes the carnage of the race from St Denis just outside Paris to a velodrome not far from Lille. Stories abound of its awfulness, my favourite being riders claiming to still be peeing blood days after the event because their insides had been jostled around so much on the cobbled patches of the course.
To win a Classic is do something special, to join the very elite of the sport. Interstingly Lance was never interested in such events, his eyes firmly on the one thing that mattered to him - Le Tour. This year saw something pretty special for all british cycling fans - for only the second time in history we had a winner of a Classic - Cavendish at Milan/San Remo. Very little got written about it by the UK press which is an almighty shame. Strangely enough more coverage has come for Victoria Pendleton who has taken her kit off to get on the front of FHM!
Anyway, finally, Spring heralds the return of the long ride and with that comes the poor excuse for being late back home. For while we can all prattle on about the pave, we know the road to our own hell is paved with good intentions and we're all building our dog houses brick by brick, deed by deed. I think every male cyclist has spent many a sunday varnishing the kennel - whether it's for turning up hours later than agreed, forgetting that guests were due for dinner, falling asleep at a social occasion, taking cycling more seriously than family, receipts for new kit discovered in pockets ("How much? For that? Have you completely taken leave of your senses?") or leaving a trail of chain lube smeared across the conservatory floor and many more. Free passes to the dog house, everyone.
Spring, it makes you glad to be alive.
Fortunately I have a great view of a row of conker trees right outside my classroom window to remind me that the world is wakening once more. And with this comes the unmistakeable fact that it's time to start getting an evening ride in now the light is good.
To sneak off at the close of day, togged out in my finest Rapha, shaking off the lycra jokes from close minded colleagues is a particular joy. As each pedal stroke pushes me further from work and into the countryside, I can feel work leaving my mind. Before long I am amidst the froth of hawthorn, the frilly pink blossoms of apple and pear trees and the unmistakeable daub of rape seed. Suddenly, the body responds, Spring lifts and the suppleness that had been missing all through winter returns.
These are generally solo rides and are accompanied by the rider's great friend - the iPod shuffle. Now I know some who say that riding while listening to music is tantamount to signing a death warrant but done carefully it can change the way you whip through the countryside. One ear in, like race radio and with the volume loud enough to still hear psychotic BMW drivers behind, it truly is a gift. However, it does take quite some skill to work out what to put on the thing - just because you like Kate Bush doesn't mean you want to hear her reminding you not to give up when your legs are burning from one too many hills; jazz is all well and good but when the wind is on the sea front Dave Brubeck's jaunty swing isn't going to cut it. No, Kraftwerk knew what they were doing when they combined their motorik sound to the beautiful machine in Tour De France.
Many is the time that the lucky accident of the shuffle segues one great track to another - The curly haired boogie of T.Rex's Children of the Revolution moving smoothly into New Order's Temptation and then whacking the tempo up with It's Tricky by Run DMC. The miles are flying by, the cadence matching the bpm and the all those natural chemicals soar through the veins. You can do anything in this state, certainly squeeze in that extra loop and still be home before your dinner is spoilt. Maybe even race this year...
Obviously, the other great thing about Spring is the return to proper bike racing. The Spring Classics are one day races in France, Belgium and The Netherlands usually involving particularly nasty stretches of road that are either cobbled, steep or both. The most famous is Roubaix as immortalised in One Sunday in Hell, a beautifully shot movie which poetically describes the carnage of the race from St Denis just outside Paris to a velodrome not far from Lille. Stories abound of its awfulness, my favourite being riders claiming to still be peeing blood days after the event because their insides had been jostled around so much on the cobbled patches of the course.
To win a Classic is do something special, to join the very elite of the sport. Interstingly Lance was never interested in such events, his eyes firmly on the one thing that mattered to him - Le Tour. This year saw something pretty special for all british cycling fans - for only the second time in history we had a winner of a Classic - Cavendish at Milan/San Remo. Very little got written about it by the UK press which is an almighty shame. Strangely enough more coverage has come for Victoria Pendleton who has taken her kit off to get on the front of FHM!
Anyway, finally, Spring heralds the return of the long ride and with that comes the poor excuse for being late back home. For while we can all prattle on about the pave, we know the road to our own hell is paved with good intentions and we're all building our dog houses brick by brick, deed by deed. I think every male cyclist has spent many a sunday varnishing the kennel - whether it's for turning up hours later than agreed, forgetting that guests were due for dinner, falling asleep at a social occasion, taking cycling more seriously than family, receipts for new kit discovered in pockets ("How much? For that? Have you completely taken leave of your senses?") or leaving a trail of chain lube smeared across the conservatory floor and many more. Free passes to the dog house, everyone.
Spring, it makes you glad to be alive.
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