Friday 14 December 2012

We are expecting....

There is a new addition to our little family on the way.  

The cyclist is quite possibly deep in the throes of a bona fide mid-life crisis

You might remember that a while back he bought a Mountain Bike magazine and started googling things like 'How long on average will I be in plaster if I attempt the Megavalanche?' 'Are tattoos absolutely compulsory', and 'Amber Heard totally likes Mountain Bikers, right?'.  Well, after a minimal 3 month research and comparison phase (which in cyclist terms practically makes this an impulse buy), we appear - according at least to headline figures from the joint account - to have placed an order for a Santa Cruz Nomad.  A Santa Cruz Nomad which will be joining us in January.

And believe it or not, I actually know even less about Mountain Biking than I do about Road Cycling...


Tuesday 4 December 2012

A Cyclist is for life, not just for Christmas.

It's been done before.  It's been done better.  But here it is anyway..... The Domestique Bliss Cyclist Christmas Gift Guide (or something).

Making a broad, sweeping generalisation (because who doesn't love those?) - cyclists come in two types.  There are the cyclists that just love bikes.  They love anything with a bike on, made for bikes, for people going on bikes.  These are Type I cyclists, and are easy to buy for - they'll be delighted with anything with a bike on.  You don't need a gift guide for them.  Then there are the others.

Ah, the others.  My cyclist is, of course, an other.  The others get little enjoyment from cycling.  Cycling is far too important for that.  It's all about pain.  Pain and money.  Pain and money and carbon.  The others are of course the Type II cyclists.  And buying for a Type II cyclist can be an absolute nightmare.  See following sample conversation between me and my mother:

Mother: "What does the cyclist want for Christmas?"
Me:  "....... I don't...... I can't....... It's just.......... I can't have this conversation right now.  I'll call you back." *Bursts into tears, slams phone down*.

Big Presents

Clothing
A straw poll of Twitter cycling types revealed strong desires for swanky threads.  A tip here for anyone attempting to buy cycling clothing as a gift for a Type II cyclist (or even a Type I with moderate Type II tendencies) - now is not the time to be using your initiative.  Your Type II cyclist will have a specific wish list detailing the garments they want.  This wish list will have been meticulously researched, cross referenced and ranked in order of preference.  Web pages will be marked, catalogues will be left open with a particular garment circled and annotated with such helpful hints as 'THIS ONE', 'THIS ONE RIGHT HERE', 'I'M A L', 'IN BLACK PLEASE', 'DON'T BUY ANYTHING ELSE COS I'LL ONLY CHANGE IT FOR THIS AND SULK'.  Seriously, do not go off piste on this one.  They know exactly what they want, and quite possibly will not thank you for buying them what you think they want.

Components
Another extremely popular answer when polled about what they wanted for christmas was bling-y bike bits.  Interestingly, only one person actually wanted a new bike - all the others wanted a flashy or shiny or carbon bit for an existing bike, which almost certainly proves something about something about cyclists.  Odds on, if you are seriously considering buying your cyclist a flashy and expensive bit for their bike (be it wheels or Di2 or whatever), you've been dropped hints for months, and know the exact thing they want, and probably bought it months ago.  If anyone is genuinely thinking 'Hmmmm, I wonder if my cyclist would like an 11-speed Di2 for christmas - I'll get one just in case', you have far more money than sense and should send me your bank account details for safekeeping immediately.

Little Presents (little being a relative term)

Now, this is where I thought you might like some help, and where I might just be able to help out.  I have compiled a little list of cycling related things I (and the cyclist) absolutely love, or stuff I've seen that I genuinely think might make an interesting and thoughtful gift.

Il Dolore
 - hand blended massage oils for cyclists.





The range consists of Verde, a pre-ride energising oil and Rosa, a post-ride restorative oil.  Available from Velobici or direct from http://il-dolore.myshopify.com/

In the mid-90's, the cyclist raced a few seasons in Belgium and Northern France.  A few times he has mentioned a weapons-grade embrocation called Sixtus, with a particular smell, and his desire to get his grubby paws on a bottle.

Over the years I have conducted no fewer than 2 half-arsed google searches for the product in question, only to come up empty handed - I suspect it's been banned - but one whiff of Verde, and he was back in that Belgian changing room, about to get his skinny and terrified British ass handed to him by several dozen enormous Belgians, born straight from the mud like those nightmarish Orc creatures from The Lord of the Rings movies (that's a touch disingenuous, the cyclist didn't do that badly over there - especially with the lay-deez). Ah!  Sweet, sweet reminiscence!

Rouleur Mugs by Richard Mitchelson





















Available from http://rouleur.cc/shop  Please also check out Richard's other fantastic work at http://www.richmitch.co.uk/

I just love these so much.  

There are plenty of cyclists to choose from, either singly, or (if you are particularly filled with the warm glow of the season) in sets of 4.  It genuinely hurts my heart that we own none of these (my finger hovers over the Buy Me! button more often than I'd care to admit), but we have a combination of horrible small children who are basically savages and have no respect for anything, and tiled floors throughout our house that would guarantee a heartbreaking slow-motion smash scene that it brings a lump to my throat just to imagine.  But just because we can't have beautiful things doesn't mean you shouldn't.  Also, particularly with the British Cycling licensed set illustrated above you get the added bonus of knowing your gift is perfect (on the general basis that nothing with Laura Trott's face on could possibly offend), and plenty of opportunity for double-entendre based hilarity* as you slink off to the kitchen to put something hot 'n wet in the 2012 hero of your choice!

*could wear thin pretty quickly.

(Wiggo, if you're asking.  Or Cav.  Or Ed Clancy.  Love the Pantani one too.)

Gloves and Overshoes

Keeping hands and feet warm and dry is basically the main battleground in the war of cyclists vs. elements.  And your cyclist (or you, if you are the cyclist) will need something that keeps their hands and feet warm and dry 80% of the sodding time, thank you Great British weather.  A quick discussion with the cyclist has basically distilled the requirements to two words - Gore.  Tex.  Seriously, if it's not Gore Tex, don't bother.  The cyclist has Gore Gore Tex overshoes, and hasn't slagged them off, so they must be good.



http://www.rosebikes.co.uk/article/gore-bike-wear-gore-gore-tex-overshoes-race-power-382672/aid:382680/?origin=pla&kw=&gclid=CM3EhuOwgbQCFQzKtAodZTsATQ

There are matching Gore Tex gloves too.


http://www.wiggle.co.uk/gore-bike-wear-countdown-gore-tex-mtb-gloves/?utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=uk&gclid=CJPUofWmgbQCFe_MtAodVX

Magazine Subscription

There are loads of great cycling magazines, and taking the cyclist as the benchmark for all cyclists, I am therefore bound to conclude that all cyclists have a cheeky little magazine habit.  Under these circumstances (the ones where they pop in to WHSmiths unaccompanied and come out 10 minutes and 30 quid lighter with a very heavy carrier bag and a faraway look in the eyes once a month), a subscription could actually save you a small fortune.

I'm going to say this once and own it - My name is Rebecca and I'm a wanky Rouleur reader.  And I'm not even sorry. I love it.  I love the smell of it, and the weight of the pages.  I love the quality and breadth of the articles (seriously! I only get it for the articles!) and the melancholy beauty of the photography.  Reading it makes me feel dead intellectual and that (until I totally ruin it by putting Rouleur down and picking up Now! - but I think what's missing from Rouleur is in-depth analysis of Kerry Katona's latest relationship crisis).  I buy it with the cyclist as an excuse ('Look darling! I got you the new Rouleur! Then I read the whole thing cover to cover, dog-eared 50% of the pages and spilt tea on the 3rd part of the exposé of the cycling scene behind the Iron Curtain!') - but I also buy him Privateer, which again covers a huge spectrum of topics (and which he prefers - hell, I'll even let him read it first.  Sometimes), and has the same wonderfully-smelling thick pages, and principles of brilliantly constructed pieces coupled with gorgeous and stylish design.

http://www.privateer.cc/
http://www.rouleur.cc/

MyKnoaky

Adorable lucky wooden talisman for attaching to your bike or wearing about your person, brought to us by Andreas Klier - what's not to love?  The company also supports the Plant for the Planet foundation - 1 MyKnoaky = 1 tree planted - and has a special Ride for the Kids edition.

http://www.myknoaky-onlineshop.com/

CO2 Pump and Cartridges

Filed under 'Things the cyclist wants but has never got around to getting' is a CO2 pump and spare cartridges.  Practical, useful and innovative, any cyclist will send tearful, grateful prayers of thanks for this on the inevitable occasion they find themselves on a back lane in February, with no phone signal and the early signs of hypothermia, trying desperately to finish repairing a puncture with fingers that stopped working 20 minutes ago.



http://www.ribblecycles.co.uk/sp/road-track-bike/pumps-pumps-mini-co2-systems-sks-airgun-co2-mini-pump-with-16g-cartridge/sksapumr240000000000

Cycling Souvenirs Mugs

It's not just cycling that unites cyclists.  The vast majority are also completely obsessed with coffee and cake.  These beautiful mugs, uniting the twin passions of coffee and iconic cycling climbs and races were brought to my attention when asking for gift ideas on Twitter, and I am only sorry I hadn't discovered them before.



http://www.cyclingsouvenirs.com/mugs
http://www.cyclingsouvenirs.com/espresso-mugs

Books

There are literally thousands of books available on all aspects of cycling, including a whole host of fascinating biographies on almost anyone you can think of.  The two that have crossed my mind as being excellent (and crucially non-contentious - The Secret Race might not be everyone's idea of a light Boxing-day read) gifts are Made In England - The Artisans Behind the Hand-Built Bicycle (which frankly looks gorgeous and fascinating) and The Cycling Anthology, a collection of essays by leading cycling writers.

http://www.pushprojects.net/
http://www.lionelbirnie.com/cyclinganthology/

As an aside, here's a link to Cycling Food On The Go - a collection of 20 recipes for cyclists in an e-book raising money for the charity Mind.
http://thediaryofmybike.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/cycling-food-on-go_15.html

If you still require inspiration, the links below are to other guides to buying the perfect Christmas gift for your cyclist, both better researched and written than this!

http://road.cc/content/feature/71079-christmas-gifts-discerning-cyclists
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/othersports/cycling/9714870Christmas-gift-guide-cycling.html



Tuesday 27 November 2012

Decal Disaster

Yeah, yeah, I know. 'sbeen AGES.  Even my MUM'S been bollocking me...

You might remember back in the summer the cyclist smashed the shit out of one of his fancy wheels, did himself some fairly impressive damage in the process, and spent months flumping around the place generally getting under my feet and complaining about not riding his bike.  And that after some pretty extensive research (thank you Bike Rumor) and list making, we toddled off hand-in-hand on a not overly successful trip to a popular bike shop that shall remain nameless, apparently exclusively staffed by dimwits and morons (I know you know) to dictate in words of one syllable the precise items we wished to purchase.

And that smashing the shit out of a front wheel means you have to buy quite a lot of replacement wheels because of aerodynamics and physics and that (really, the cyclist can explain it so much better than me).

Well, this little trip was back in July (documented here). I got a bike of my very own (currently set up in turbo trainer in front room, where I will occasionally sacrifice style for speed for 30 minutes* when I'm not using it as a drying rack for jeans and duvet covers), and the ancillary bike kit that one requires.  The cyclist picked up some replacements for the bits that had been ruined by the crash - most importantly some extremely blingy Bont shoes, and also chose some new rims to build replacement wheels on to. 18 hole front and 24 hole rear to match the hubs from the destroyed wheel and it's friend.  Special tubeless rims to avoid punctures, with less rolling resistance (and basically because they're new and he reckons he needs them in his life).
*30 minutes denotes chamois time not turbo time.

And last week - last week! - the aforementioned spanky new rims finally arrived.

'But you ordered them 4 MONTHS ago! And the warehouse had them IN STOCK!'
Why yes, dear reader, you have hit the nail on the head.  Here's what happened.

We put the order in at the bike shop.  The bike shop put the order in to the warehouse.  We paid, and took the items that were actually in the shop, and awaited a quick phone call to let us know the other bits had come in so we could pick it up.  And waited.  And phoned the bike shop.  And were told that all our stuff had come in and we could come and get it.  And went and got it.

Except there were no rims.  But we would get a call on Tuesday to let us know when they would be in the shop for collection, probably later that week.

And we waited.  And Tuesday came and went.  And we waited.  And we phoned the bike shop, but the person we needed to speak to wasn't in that day, but he would phone us on Tuesday.  And we waited.  And we phoned the bike shop.  And we got a bit shirty.  And we went to the bike shop.  And the rims had been there, but they weren't there any more, they'd been sent back to the warehouse, and we'd get a phone call on Tuesday.  And we waited.  And we didn't go back down to the bike shop because we weren't sure we'd be able to keep our temper.  And we phoned the bike shop, but the person we needed to speak to wasn't in that day but he'd definitely call us back.  And we phoned the bike shop and put on a funny voice and gave a fake name, but he really wasn't there (or he was avoiding all calls in case it was us putting on a funny voice).  And we waited.  And eventually we rang head office and dished out a bit of a bollocking and funnily enough the rims rocked up at the office a few days later.

And here's the killer: Four months after ordering the bastarding things, one of the rims that has turned up is the 2012 version they presumably had in stock, while the other is straight from the distributer and (we assume) 2013 version.  So the situation we find ourselves in is a subtle but totally crucial minor difference in the stickers which is sending the cyclist's bike OCD into apoplectic spasms of fury and frustration.



The crucial detail of bike decals, be it on the frame, wheels, stems or saddles, is absolutely an art form unto itself.  Heck, there's even a reasonably large market in custom post-factory decals should a cyclist absolutely require a certain size of lettering or colour detail.  And as his bike is his pride and joy, rim decals that don't match will not be happening on my cyclist's watch.  Wrecking his fingernails, soaking the stickers with washing up liquid, and scraping away with various utensils, all the while muttering and swearing to get the feckers off will be happening.



Thursday 11 October 2012

Farce-port

Thought I'd go a bit off topic and tell you the one about the stressed-out mum and the passport office....

That's the thing about holidays.  There's paperwork.

We went off on a long-awaited holiday recently.  Long-awaited, because for reasons I'll not bore you with we've not been on one in a while.  And, slightly to my shame, this holiday represented the first time we've ever taken the squids to the great abroad.  And taking squids to the great abroad requires the aforementioned paperwork.

In the best traditions of these things, and again for reasons I'll not bore you with too much, I left the organisation of the paperwork to the last possible minute.  Obtaining their papers (I am saying that 'Allo 'Allo style, feel free to join me) was on my radar, in the same vague sort of a way as helping them pick their GCSE subjects.

Naively, I assumed that when I got round to it I would arrange myself a little appointment at the nearest passport office (Liverpool), waste a bit of time in a local coffee shop, return to pick up the kids passports and be back in time for tea.  I think we can all probably tell by this point that that was not how this shit was going to go down.

Point the first: you cannot get a kids first passport on the same day.  Once you know this, the reasons seem pretty obvious really, but it genuinely hadn't occurred to me that this was the case.  They can guarantee to turn the document around in a week, but no quicker.  Luckily, I had made this discovery 2 weeks before our departure day.

Point the second: I couldn't get an appointment at Liverpool passport office in time.  I made the call, gave the information and was told the first available slot they had at the Liverpool office (about half an hour away) was September the 18th.  That meant they would guarantee the passports back on or before the 26th September.  Our outward flight was 6am on the 25th.  Fuck.

I had the first little wibble at this point.

Point the third: Durham is a lot further away than it looks.  The next nearest passport office is in Durham, and I could get an appointment in plenty of time.  I almost calmed down at this point, until I checked my route on google maps, and gave myself permission for another little wibble.  On the day, I gritted my teeth, tooled myself up with a couple of packets of Haribo, and set off for the 3 hour drive to the far north like an intrepid pioneer in the Amelia Earheart model (actual similarity to Amelia Earhart may vary).

Point the fourth: It pisses down epically in Durham*.  I got the right turning after the third go round the Durham city centre one-way system (yes I have sat nav.  Her name is Sally and she's the definition of frenemy).  I sweaty-palmedly negotiated a multi-storey carpark, and came to a halt not sure if I was more desperate for a coffee or a wee.  We (yes I was packing a three-year old too, who was casting her vote for wee) had over 2 hours to kill til our appointment time at the passport office, and got completely drenched.  Any bits of us that weren't utterly soaked were soon seen to by a passing white van.
* other weather may be available but certainly wasn't in evidence.

The interview at the passport office passed without incident, the drive home was boring, but the sun came out and there was even a little rainbow. This was not, in hindsight, a little sign that everything from this point was going to go well.

The first buggeration factor was the text from the courier company on Monday at 9.05, when I was approximately 100yards from the house and in a full sprint on the way back from the school run, saying they'd tried to deliver my item.  Because what 'We will be with you sometime between 9 and 5' really means is 'We will rock up the second you drop the kids at school/ pop outside to hang out the washing/ nip to the loo - and then vanish like a puff of smoke'.  I rebooked delivery for Wednesday, but got another text Tuesday.  I missed them Wednesday too (school run again).

The delivery came on Thursday.   It was 5 days before we were leaving.  I was feeling quite smug about it all.  But when I opened it, there was Oscar's passport.  No passport for Isabella.  Wibble time.  A call to the courier company, a confirmation that this was the only delivery they had for me.  A full-blown panic.

They give you a receipt at the passport office with a unique 9-digit number barcode that you need to quote when following up with any queries etc.  I had, of course, lost it - probably threw it away.  And so I'm there 10 minutes later with a pair of rubber gloves on pretty much hysterical and going through the bins on the kitchen floor like a mental.  An hour later, still no sign of the one bit of paper I needed, although I'd found quite a lot of old spaghetti.

I rang the passport office and managed to bypass the 9-digit barcode safety protocol by crying.  At this stage the crying wasn't actually deliberate, I'd started properly about half an hour before and couldn't stop.  They had all my details, all Bella's details, and everything was fine.  Then they asked for our address.  After a bit of to-ing and fro-ing it turned out that for some reason they had attributed the wrong postcode to Bella's application and dispatched her passport to an address in Prestwich.

I did the only thing I could at this point - rang the cyclist at work and had a complete heaving mucus-filled meltdown where 2 out of every 3 words were only audible by dogs.

The courier company were able to confirm the delivery in my name to the wrong address hadn't been actioned.  They still had Bella's passport, which was a massive relief - but they couldn't change the address on the delivery until they had an instruction to do so from the passport office, and did I want to call back Monday.  No, I said, I did not want to call back Monday, because at 6am on Tuesday we were flying from Manchester Airport.  A little later I got a voicemail saying the re-delivery had been confirmed and the passport would be with me Friday.  I breathed out and got a drink.

Friday I get a text from the couriers. 'Sorry, we are unable to deliver today. Delivery has been re-booked for tomorrow'.  Yep, you've guessed it, wibble.  I rang them up to ask if I could come and pick it up, to be told that it was at their Northampton depot, probably a 4 hour drive.  I gave up and placed our holiday fate in the hands of the courier gods (Mercury and Yodel if my memory serves me), and got on with the task of taking the house apart to find the cyclist's passport, which we knew had to be here somewhere and eventually turned up behind the bedside table under a Bill Bryson book about 3 hours later.

Bella's passport arrived Saturday morning, about 11am.  I didn't kiss the delivery man out of sheer relief because that sort of thing gets the neighbours talking.

Now we're back from our holiday all our passports are in one place  -  the special compartment in the document folder in the cupboard, where they should have been all along.

Monday 8 October 2012

Apologies

Sincerest apologies for not having posted in the last couple of weeks - events have conspired to rob me of both my time and inspiration!

In the meantime though I have posted a three-part 'introduction' to Domestique Bliss on the Wheelsuckers site - I was extremely flattered to be asked to provide them with some guest blogs.  If you've been reading for a while you will recognise a lot of the gist of the Wheelsuckers posts, but there's some new stuff in there as well.

Feel free to have a look at 'The Bike, The Bits and The Wardrobe' here.

Tuesday 18 September 2012

50 Shades of Turbo

In which our heroine lifts the lid on her S+M relationship with the turbo trainer.

The turbo trainer is a brain-numbing, bum-numbing torture contraption of fiendishly criminal genius.  And I love it.  And I hate it.  I love/hate the stupid whirring noise it makes.  I love/hate the mind games I play with the resistance setting (the resistance setting is winning the mind games, hands down.  That bitch is cold as ice).  I love/hate the almost hypnotic trance the bastard thing lulls you in to.  I love/hate the clock watching challenge - can I make it past 18 minutes on the thing before my bum drops off, my legs turn to jelly and I want my mum?  I love/hate the almost instant sensation in my legs that lets me know I am doing exercise.  And I love/hate the fact that I can ride my bike whenever I feel like it, in the comfort of my own front room.

You see, thanks in large to my mind, I am still very bad at riding my bike on the road.  To offer up some kind of mental picture; let's start with Bambi on ice.  Translate that to a thirty-something woman on two wheels, and throw in some additional gibbering.  Add the discomfort of still being more than a little self conscious out in the big wide world in a pair of bike shorts, and I think now we all understand why I prefer the safety of my own front room.

A few days last week saw me watching the Tour of Britain highlights shows from the abject discomfort of the turbo.  I attempted a chunky-monkey intermediate sprint challenge (I won the Yodel sprints jersey in a convincing manner, sorry Pete), and a thunder-thighs King of the Mountains sprint challenge (Kristian need not fear for his jersey however. Not bothered, wasn't my colour anyway).  I found it quite a good fit, watching the cycling while attempting a little of my own.  Them skinny buggers (or professionals, to give them the name they prefer) do make it look deceptively easy though.

I have a turbo-challenge from the cyclist.  The cyclist, who does these things properly. The cyclist, who will cheerfully (well, not cheerfully exactly, but you know what I mean) do over an hour on the turbo without moaning, sighing, whining, swearing, or getting off for a drink, a wee, a 'rest', a 'stretch' or a 'cry'. The cyclist, who requires a tea towel to be draped across the cross tube when he goes on the turbo, for drippy cyclist sweat.  As I am a lay-dee, I of course, glow.  And the challenge the cyclist has set me is to get a drop of 'glow' to drip off the end of my nose when I'm on the turbo.

So why the sudden interest in the turbo trainer, I hear you clamour.  Simple.  We are off to Majorca next week.  Now, I know what you're thinking, and you can stop it right now.  There are no bikes accompanying us (and none will be hired on the island either).  Instead I am going for the sophisticated pursuits of heavy drinking (pink wine and rainbow-drinks made from paint thinner, with sparklers and plastic monkeys in 'em), and lounging around in the sunshine, with possibly a side order of dancing to incredibly rubbish Euro-pop until the kids pretend they were adopted and the cyclist has to give me a fireman's carry back to the apartment.  The biggest issue about this eagerly anticipated week in the sunshine is that it is creating a head-on collision between two of my most irritating character flaws (no, not alcoholism and predilection for bad music); vanity, and lack of self-control in the snacks department.  I want to look acceptable on the beach and I want to eat fifteen packets of Quavers and a Mars Bar.  Enter the turbo.

And I love it.  And I hate it.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Those that hate the turbo might remember that a few months back a brilliant eBay listing for one was doing the rounds, link is here if you want to refresh your memory.


Sunday 16 September 2012

Riding dirty...

...And wet.  And cold.  

Summer has left the building.  It didn't even bother to cancel the milk; instead it threw one last raucous party and skipped out the next morning, leaving the place looking a bit like one of those hoarders flats on Grimebusters.

So we are faced with the prospect of autumn rides, and all that entails.  And all that entails is weather, and lots of it.  The cyclist and I reside in the north of England, the wrong side of the Pennines.  Therefore, as it is September, there is now greater than an 85% chance of getting piss wet through on any ride undertaken.  There is also a 56% chance of hail, 48% chance of sleet and 15% chance of a plague of frogs.  There are approximately 3 'good ride' days left this year - you know the ones, gorgeous crisp and clear autumn days - on two of them the cyclist will be stuck in the office.  He will get out on his bike on the last one, and it will remind him why he does this. The lungs full of clean clean air, cold and still; the clear sky that allows the thin sunshine to bathe everything in the particular yellow glow you only get as winter draws close, will keep him hooked for another year.

But from here on in that's not going to be the norm.  The norm will be rain.  And as every cyclist at this time of year knows, rain is not just rain, oh no, there are types of rain.  There is blobby rain, extra large drops that go right down the back of your neck and make you squeal.  The horizontal driving rain that accompanies a fierce headwind and makes you wish you had never been born.  Freezing rain that slowly creeps into the bones until you're sure you will never regain sensation in your hands and feet.  That fine rain which is basically sopping wet air which manages to get in everywhere, no matter how waterproof you think you are.  Sheet rain - how can there be that much water in the sky?  The targeted microclimate black cloud rain that follows you about.  And the surprise rain, which should in fact never be a surprise and yet always is.  You will experience more than one type of rain in a ride.

You will put on your glasses to protect your face a bit, your glasses will steam up.  You take them off, your face steams up.  You layer up to try and keep warm, all that results in is you lugging extra kilos of cold wet and above all heavy kit around with you.  The best weapons in your armoury will be anything that keeps your hands and feet dry, the holy grail of winter riding.  And even when your ride is done, the misery continues, as there are few things less pleasant than the removal of cold and sodden lycra.  The one I can think of is standing, dripping sadly, in cold and sodden lycra waiting for the feeling to come back into your fingers so you can remove said cold and sodden lycra. The cyclist has a mild circulation disorder, meaning that quite often following a winter training ride when he is finally able to take off his shoes and gloves he will reveal the purple and yellow extremities of a 3-day-old corpse.

Of course, rain is not limited to the colder months (in fact the cold is not just limited to the colder months).  When the weather is grim and the race schedule is heavy in the 'summer' it can be hard to get kit washed and dried properly in time for the next race.  With my 'glass half full' outlook on life, I like to think of this as your kit 'pre-moistened for your convenience'; the cyclist has a slightly different take on the issue, quote from evening crit at Preston, Thursday 7/6/12:
"Damp socks. Brilliant.  Oh, and damp tights too.  Well done.  It's a good job I had a dump, I'm carrying an extra kilo in waterlogged kit."

More fun even than rain, is hail.  Hail hurts.  Hail comes at you hard and fast, and tries to sandblast your ears and nose off.  Hail lurks, waiting until you are on the most exposed and remote part of your ride, and then strikes, knowing full well you have nowhere to hide and were close to tears anyway.

Finally, let's talk about wind.  Wind, mortal enemy of the cyclist.  Cycling has dedicated years of research, millions of the currency denomination of your choice, endless experiments and modifications, all to the pursuit of better slicing through the air.  The least the bloody stuff could do is stay still and stop moving about.  From Autumn to Spring there is one undeniable fact about cycling and the wind - there is no such thing as a tailwind in this period.  The winter cyclist knows well the phenomenon of the circular headwind.  Or the sweeping sidewind, that mocks your aero frame and tries to topple you into a field.

There is only one known cure for a cold wet and windy ride; a hot bath, a large mug of tea and some toast.  Chin chin!


Saturday 8 September 2012

Inertia

There's an elephant in the room.  A white one, with pretty gold accents.  And she keeps giving me dirty looks...

Forgive me, for I have sinned.  It has been 3 weeks since I last rode my (new, expensive) bike.  And I can't really put my finger on why.  Oh, don't get me wrong, I've got plenty of excuses.  In no particular order, some of them have been: Kids, Work, Tired, Weather, Ironing, Vuelta, Tomorrow, and Wine.  But none of these explain why I'm finding it so damned hard to get motivated.  Especially now the weather's perked up a bit.

So what have I been doing while I've not been riding my bike?  Ridiculously, I have mainly been sat on my ever expanding arse, moaning about how wobbly various areas of me are getting.  To add insult to injury, I'm off on holiday in a couple of weeks, about to subject myself to a week of trial by bikini.  I attempted a dry-run with the sodding thing yesterday.  The results were not what I would hope - please feel free to insert your own ocean-based mammal joke here, with extra points if you can work a reference to Greenpeace in.  Like rubbing your tummy while patting your head, trying to walk in a two-piece while holding everything in and attempting to hide your bum from the majority of terrified onlookers is a skill requiring serious mental agility and plenty of practice.  But I digress.  The daft thing is, I know I'll be ok if I just get over it, get on the bike and get a ride done (you might note I didn't use the word enjoy in that last sentence.  That was deliberate - I'm not there yet).  There's really only one answer.  I've got to escape the gravity of my own inertia.  This blog post is my solemn pledge that I am going to lycra-up this week and get out on my bike - no excuses.

Must try harder.


Sunday 2 September 2012

N + 1

Here we go again...

The formula above, N+1, of course indicates the correct number of bikes one should own.  A more complex equation makes the addition (N+1) = (D-1), where the correct number of bikes one should own is N+1 but crucially 1 less than the total number triggering automatic divorce.  You will know them already, but you can find The Rules here; Rule 12 being pertinent to this post.

I mention this because a chain reaction has been set in motion.  I have caught a glimpse of the future.  A series of events is about to transpire, the upshot of which will be:
Me, stumbling downstairs at 3 am for a glass of water.  Much like a big-haired, bleary-eyed Indiana Jones, I will dodge the small cat on the stairs ferociously trying to remove my foot at the ankle.  I will not do a little yelp at the sight of the enormous spider that lives in the hall and comes out when we've all gone to bed.  I will skip nimbly across the lego booby-trap, scattered liberally across the living room floor.  As I near my thirst-quenching destination, smugly congratulating myself for so smartly running the assault course of my house - I will stub my motherfucking toe on a Yeti Mountain Bike propped up against the sofa.  Clutching the damaged toe and swearing like a navvy, there is a grim inevitability about what will happen next.  I hop backwards straight into the lego.  With both feet now completely ruined, I stumble blindly right into the path of the monster spider.  Screaming like a girl, waking cyclist, kids and several neighbours, the small murderous cat chooses this moment to leap out from his stair (where he has been waiting, biding his vicious fluffy time) like a genetic splicing of Cato Fong from the Pink Panther movies and the Facehugger from Alien.  I never get my drink of water.

How can I have seen the future like this?  A Yeti?  What's going on?  Let me explain - the cyclist bought a Mountain Bike Magazine this morning.  And we all know what that means.



And so we enter the research phase of the next two-wheeled acquisition.  He has spent quite a lot of this afternoon on my laptop (his is at the office).  The internet browsing tabs he has left open are 1) Google search Where to buy Yeti SB66 - Aluminium Pro XTR 2) Megavalanche Week - Everything You Need To Know To Do The Megavalanche 3) Wheelbase Cycles 4) Google search Does Blake Lively dig Mountain Bikers?

Stubbing my toe on a Yeti in the front room is only a matter of time.


Wednesday 29 August 2012

Lance Laughs Last?

Does he have a card or two up his sleeve? 

It happened a couple of days ago.  Unless you have been living under a rock, you will know that Lance Armstrong has refused to participate in the USADA's arbitration process.  They subsequently stripped him of his seven Tour de France victories and other results and subjected him to a lifetime competition ban.

There have been numerous commentaries stating that this step back away from the arbitration process was Armstrong's best and only recourse to maintain what is left of his reputation.  He did not want the charges and the evidence against him to be brought into the public domain and scrutinised.  This way he can still parrot his favourite 'Never tested positive' line 'til he's blue in the face, while watching the LiveStrong dollars stack up as his loyal fans reach into their wallets to express their support for him via his foundation.

The arbitration process he declined to participate in involved the USADA progressing their case to (crucially) their arbitrator and presenting the evidence to Armstrong in a face-to-face (crucially) public setting.  The reaction to Armstrong's refusal to fight the charges has been seen as his desire to avoid the public airing of the gamut of evidence against him.

But what if that's not how it is at all?  What if, instead of trying to dodge the evidence, Armstrong is actually engineering a situation he feels more in control of where it all comes out - every last drop, in the manner and to the audience of his choosing.  Rather than dodging the fight altogether, he's merely attempting to change the weapons and the battlefield.  In the world's most defiant example of passive-aggressive taking one's ball in (oh yes I did), Armstrong is creating a situation where he sets the UCI and the USADA to slug it out before the CAS, while he gets to put his feet up and watch what unfolds.

Warning: What follows is pure conjecture- conceived, like so many things, in the passenger seat of a Landrover Discovery on a drive to North Wales.  As such, there are most likely mistakes.  Probably huge ones.  Apologies, as always, in advance.  Most of all, I apologise if I am not expressing myself clearly and articulately. 

So, the USADA has effectively sought to strike Armstrong from the record, nullifying his results from August 1998 and imposing a lifetime ban upon him.  Theoretically, what has he left to lose?  He's not going to confess.  He's not going to play ball.  My suggestion is that rather than sweeping as much of this under the carpet as possible and sloping off quietly, he is about to come up swinging.  And by that, I of course mean getting other people to do his dirty work for him while he has no further part in this.  Stick with me while I try to explain...

Armstrong's statement spoke of his belief that entering into the USADA arbitration process would deny him the option to 'Confront these [USADA] allegations in a fair setting'.  Now, the sanctions imposed by the USADA have to be ratified or not by the UCI.  If the UCI choose not to ratify the USADA's sanctions, the case will almost certainly go before the Court of Arbitration for Sport - and it is my suggestion that this could be exactly what he wants.  Again with the sticking with me thing...

So why would the UCI choose not to ratify the decision of the USADA and the sanctions it has chosen to impose?  Well, I think the question here is -  Why would they ratify the decision?   To play Devil's advocate for just a moment, the USADA is seemingly deciding whom it will pursue and who it will not, who will face sanction and who will not, and under what circumstances they are prepared to change their own rules.  So who polices the policemen?  Please let me be clear - I am not passing judgement upon the USADA, their process or their findings; merely stating that the role of judge, jury and executioner is not a happy one.  If the UCI choose to accept the sanctions of the USADA they are handing over virtually all their power to an unregulated body, albeit one which has the support of the WADA.  I propose that they have no desire to do this; however, not ratifying the sanctions of the USADA is by default positioning for Armstrong - thus the UCI (with their eye on their own reputations) is forced into doing his dirty work for him, while at the very least he gets to sit back and enjoy the show.  And let's not forget, the UCI are in this up to their necks -  heavily implicated in covering up positive tests for Armstrong and facing accusations of corruption in relation to cash donations made by him.  Additionally, the UCI facilitated Armstrong's comeback from retirement version 1, despite him not having completed the mandatory testing period for the Biological Passport.

Judge Sparks, when confirming the USADA's jurisdiction to manage the anti-doping case with relation to Armstrong, said: "There are troubling aspects of this case, not least of which is USADA's apparent single-minded determination to force Armstrong to arbitrate the charges against him, in direct conflict with the UCI's equally evident desire not to proceed against him.'', demonstrating that the UCI, for whatever reason has no desire to pursue Armstrong (and therefore no desire to ratify the USADA sanctions?).

So then, let's make the assumption that Armstrong by deciding not to proceed with the USADA arbitration process is actively trying to engineer a situation where the CAS gets involved.  What's in this for him?  My understanding is that the CAS is a completely separate body from any already mentioned, and it is here I believe Armstrong plays his masterstroke - the introduction of this separate body overseeing the arbitration process engineers a subtle but utterly crucial shift on the part of the USADA from attack (of Armstrong) to defence (of it's processes, findings, methods and decisions).  The CAS will more than likely subject both the USADA and the UCI to some fairly harsh and uncomfortable scrutiny - would anyone emerge unscathed from this process?  

Another question that I can't find a straight up answer to is this: What (if anything) changes if the CAS are brought in to the equation?  The evidence against Armstrong is held in witness statements - although his stored 'B' samples may be re-tested, they don't have 'B' samples of their own (C samples if you like), and are thus inadmissible.  He is never going to 'test positive' in such a way as to be inarguable proof of doping.  So then, what, if any, implication does the introduction of the CAS have potentially upon the witnesses?    Could it change the game to the extent that some even choose to pull their statements when faced with the CAS rather than the USADA arbitration panel?  Would the supposed 'deals' reached between witnesses and the USADA in return for their testimonies be upheld by the CAS?  Can they be upheld by the CAS?  Or, once presented to the CAS could the UCI even be intent on progressing against the witnesses themselves in order that the decisions of the USADA are overturned with relation to their past doping admissions and full sanctions are imposed?  This is pure conjecture, which surmises that the UCI or the CAS would want to pursue the witnesses - it may of course not for any of a number of reasons.  But I can't find anyone else asking these questions or providing any information either way.

The point I am trying so clumsily to make is to ask whether shifting the arbitration process from the USADA to the 'neutral ground' of the CAS may have significant implications, not only for the bodies involved, but also for the witnesses themselves.  And whether, by refusing to participate in the USADA arbitration process, Armstrong has in fact not stepped back from a fight, but instead engineered this situation; a very different sort of fight.

Someone far brighter and better informed than me might have a completely different take on the scenario outlined here, or be able to explain how this might work or otherwise.  I am struggling to find answers to any of the questions I have posed.  There may be zero implication on anyone should the CAS become involved in the process, or indeed quite the reverse to what I am suggesting, the USADA may relish the notion.

But - big if - if I am right, and introducing the CAS into the equation changes the game even slightly, then while things as they stand are unlikely to get any worse for Armstrong, they could be about to get a hell of a lot worse for everyone else.  And if this is the case, then this isn't over.  It's only just begun.

For interest, the CAS procedures can be found at  http://www.tas-cas.org/d2wfiles/document/4962/5048/0/Code20201220_en_2001.01.pdf .  Note - CAS hearings are not undertaken in public, except for the agreement of both parties.

Footnote.
In the light of how emotive an issue the Lance Armstrong doping case is, and how strong people's feelings are on both sides, I would like you to understand that this blog 'article' (for want of a better word)  came from a train of thought and a subsequent discussion myself and the cyclist had in the car one afternoon, about how there could be more than meets the eye to Armstrong's apparent position U-turn.  I am trying to ask questions about where this goes next and whether there are implications attached to that.


Saturday 25 August 2012

Vuelta, baby!

Let's see what the cyclist makes of this one....

It's come around really quickly, thanks I think to the fabulousness of the Olympics bridging the gap between the Tour de France and the start of the Vuelta.  Sorry this is a bit late - but 1 week in, what does the cyclist make of the Vuelta?

Is this a straight up Froome V Contador?
Yeah, I think it probably is.  There are a couple of others who fancy their chances, like Rodriguez, but realistically it'll come down to Froome and Contador at the end of the three weeks.

Where's Contador at? Physically and mentally?
Mentally, it's anyone's guess really.  He's made it very clear he wants this win, but only time will tell the psychological toll the ban has taken on him.

Physically, it looks like he's lost none of his top end speed and his ability to attack aggressively on the climbs.  However, for whatever reason, he doesn't seem to be showing the prolonged power he had prior to his ban.  A lot has been made of the multiple attacks he made on stage 3, suggesting this shows he could make an attack stick at any point.   To my mind, this is bullshit.  These are professional riders racing a Grand Tour, not competitive mates showing off on a club run.  When you are riding a three week Grand Tour for the win, you do not waste energy on multiple attacks to prove a point.  If he could've made an attack stick he would have there and then.

And Froome - is he too tired? Can he cope with the psychological effects of being a team leader?
Let's be straight - Froome has a more difficult task ahead of him to win this Vuelta than Wiggins had to win the Tour.  The Vuelta is inherently a much more unpredictable race.  Firstly, the Vuelta team Sky is fielding is not quite as strong as the team they sent to the Tour.  Secondly, the parcours is absolutely nails.  Thirdly, the main contenders for the Vuelta, in contrast to the Tour, are incredibly aggressive attacking racers.  They will not be content to sit back.  Wiggins largely benefitted from a massive psychological advantage going in to the Tour - no-one believed they could beat him.  This was due to a combination of his supreme dominance going in to the race and the fact that the route suited him down to the ground with strong emphasis on Time Trials.

There is one potential undoing for Froome - he has to maintain consistency at all times.  If he, at any point, drops to the back of the group like he did once or twice at the Tour, he will be attacked and how. Provoking an attack could cost him any time he'd be looking to make up in the time trial, especially taking in to account time bonuses.  Now, Froome has proven he has the ability to out time-trial any and all of the other main contenders for the GC.  But the time trial here is relatively short, and he'll probably only take 30 seconds from his main rivals.


But on the question of whether he's tired, I think the answer would be no.  He looks to be raring to go.  Last year's Vuelta he was not team leader, and he was second.  Tour de France he was not team leader and he was second.  He's finally got his team leader position and he's got a lot to prove.  He needs this win for himself.  So far it looks like he's calm and in control and has the measure of his opponents.

Will the race unveil any surprises?
Quite possibly!  The Vuelta is the Grand Tour of the three most likely to conceal a surprise performance or two!

What about the time bonuses?
Time bonuses should never be discounted in the minds of the contenders, but I can see this Vuelta being less close than last year's was.  The time bonuses have been reduced from last year - I think the result will be a true reflection of the race.

As an aside, the cyclist makes an advanced prediction for next year's Giro - Richie Porte.  You're welcome!



Friday 17 August 2012

The Final Mission - Scenes 1-4


THE FINAL MISSION: THE WYLER ROAD RACE





FADE IN:

1)        EXT. CAR PARK – EARLY MORNING

Camera pans across the busy car park of the Flying Fortress Inn, opposite a Village Hall on the B-17 early on a Sunday morning in late September.  Activity all around as guys from their late teens into their mid-thirties are preparing for the race, some alone, others chatting in small groups.   OVER we hear the voice of Bobby.

BOBBY (V.O)
Welcome to the last race of the season, the Wyler Road Race.  24 missions down, one to go.  These are the hard men, the season survivors.  They just got to make it through today in one piece.

Camera settles on Mike neatly pinning his numbers onto his jersey.

BOBBY (V.O.)
Meet Meticulous Mike, with an eye for detail.  He’ll have checked out the course on Google maps beforehand, no mistake.  See him folding his numbers down that little bit smaller, replacing the rusty club-issue pins with his own clean stash so as not to snag his skinsuit.  Marginal gains all the way.

Pan right to Pete, wincing slightly and adjusting his shorts as he walks uncomfortably to the sign-on.

BOBBY (V.O.)
Ah, the superstitious one.  There’s always a superstitious one.  Seems to be working for him, got his first cat licence the day he applied his chamois cream after his embrocation and has done it in that order ever since – left leg, right leg, deep breath, undercarriage - swears it makes him go faster.  Truth be told, not bad for an amateur.  Rumour has it a couple teams got their eye on him.

A burst of loud laughter.  Camera pans right again to Jack, Johnny and Bill in matching trade team kits, leaning on a car.  Johnny, the ringleader, is holding court.

BOBBY (V.O.)
Check out the young gun hotshots, big fishes in this small pond.  Overconfident and ambitious – guts ‘n glory ‘n girls.  They’ll soon have that beat out of them, either by each other or by the road.  Teammates - and sure, they’re all smiles now but give ‘em each a sniff of a win and it’s soon every man for himself.  Especially true today.  They've all got an eye on next season, all looking for that last chance to impress.

Camera shifts a little to the left.  We see Lenny watching Jack, Johnny and Bill with a mixture of awe and anxiety.

BOBBY (V.O.)
First year out of the juniors, young and awkward, desperate to be part of the cool set - thwarted somewhat by his need to visit the bathroom at least 6 times before the start of every race.  Good kid, though.  Got heart.

JOHNNY
Hey Lenny!  Get over here!  One to go, Lenny, just one to go!

LENNY
What are you gonna do when it’s all over, Johnny?

JOHNNY
(Puts his arm round Lenny) Wine, women and song!  Not necessarily in that order.


LENNY
What about you Jack?

JACK
Holiday.  Two weeks in the sun.  Top this up! (Flicks back hem of shorts to reveal a crisp tan line)

BILL
Yeah, well I heard you’ve been going on the sunbed in your kit to get those lines.

JACK
Shut up.

BILL
We got to make it through today first boys.

LENNY
(Looks uncomfortable) ‘Scuse me Johnny…. er…. I gotta….

Lenny ducks out from under Johnny’s arm.  The camera follows him as he walks through the car park and towards the busy HQ.  Through the doors, Lenny darts left into the WC, camera goes straight ahead into a small office.

2)        INT. RACE HQ

Two senior Commissaires sit looking at the course map.  They look serious.

COMMISSAIRE 1
Remember Oakenclough in ’07?  65 riders left from the neutral zone that day.  Picked off like flies, they was.  Unprepared.  Only 14 eventually made it over that line, and of those, 2 never raced again.  Never seen a headwind like it, hope I never will again.

COMMISSAIRE 2
You think we’re heading to a bloodbath, Fred?

COMMISSAIRE 1
(Folds the map and stares into the middle distance) I don’t know Stan, I just don’t know.


3)        EXT. CAR PARK – END OF RIDER BREIFING

COMMISSAIRE 1
… OK, now don’t throw your empty gel wrappers on the road, you’re not in the Tour de France.  If the broom wagon goes past you, you’re on your own out there.  And, and this is serious, if we see you resting your arms on the centre of your bars we’ll pull the whole race.  No question.  Good luck out there!  Oh, and one last thing before we start.  We know there's going to be bandits on the course.  At some point, there’s 10,000 sportive riders going to be coming at you in the opposite direction.  Now, we don’t know where, so just be aware and keep your eyes peeled for riders with their numbers on the front, not the back.

JOHNNY
Do we get extra license points for taking any of them out?
(LAUGHING)

COMMISSAIRE 2
(Smiles) No lad, just the warm glow of a job well done.

The riders start to roll slowly out of the car park and to the neutral zone in the washed out late September light.  Lost in their own thoughts, the scene is unnaturally quiet, but for the clicking of gears and the quiet whirr of a Di2 motor.  There is a growing sense of foreboding.  Jack grabs Johnny’s arm.

JACK
Tell me the truth, Johnny.  The truth.  You scared, Johnny?
JOHNNY
(Grins) Scared! We’re too stupid to be scared!

Jack grins in relief, claps Johnny on the arm and rides off.  Camera stays on Johnny’s face as his smile drops and he looks to the ground.

FADES.

4)        EXT.  ROAD - NEUTRAL ZONE

The riders are rolling slowly in a bunch along a country lane.  Johnny sees Bill near the rear of the group and drops back to talk to his teammate.

JOHNNY
We’re nearly there!  Just this last race, then it’s the off-season Billy boy!  Just think, when you’re back home kissing your girl and drinking a beer, with a big fat pizza in front of you – how sweet to know you earned it, you deserve it!  We’ll be like heroes Bill!

BILL
(Looks uncomfortable) Sometimes I wish the season would never end.  Hell, Johnny, I don’t know if I got what it takes to make it back in the real world.  Here I feel I belong, or somethin’.  (Rubs back of neck) You should know - I signed up for the Track League. 

JOHNNY
(Aghast) Track?  Bill, that’s suicide! Those guys don’t have gears or brakes or nothin’!  I've heard there's a German rides track, quads so big he could snap a man clean in two!

BILL
It’s just somthin’ I gotta do Johnny.  I don’t expect you to understand. (Gets out of saddle and rides away, looking back over his shoulder)  I guess I’ll see you on the finish line.

Bill rides away, Johnny staring open-mouthed after him.

FADES.


Monday 13 August 2012

Sports Year of the Personality.

How the Olympics has been about more than just sport.

Well, I couldn't have been more wrong if I'd tried.  Prior to the start, I thought the Olympics were an astounding waste of time and money, a huge white elephant no-one really wanted or could afford; our hopes would be built up and dashed as athlete after athlete didn't quite make it on the Olympic stage.  I'll admit it now, I totally didn't 'get' the opening ceremony - switched off after about 20mins and went to bed.  But I was as wrong as Wendy McWrong  going the wrong way up a one way street on the wrong side of the tracks wearing a sign saying 'I am wrong'.  After a bit of a slow start, the Olympics have been brilliant.  The athletes have been brilliant.  And I've fallen a little bit in love with all of them.

I mean, c'mon.  How likeable is Jess Ennis?  How much do you want to give Nicola Adams or Katherine Grainger a hug?  Mo Farah?  He made me cry!  Chris Hoy.  Bradley Wiggins.  Laura and Dani and Joanna and Vicky.  Helen and Heather and Anna and Katherine and Sophie.  I could go on and on and on.  And don't even get me started on Adam Gemili, who I'm trying to adopt.

They're just so nice.  And, along with many others who have said much the same, I'm so flippin glad to finally see their hard work, determination, sacrifice and grit rewarded and lauded in place of vapid ronsealed utter nonentities filling our conciousnesses unbidden with who they're shagging and what they're eating.  Quake in your stilettos, denizens of TOWIE, your time has been.  Virtually without exception, I would like to buy the athletes a large drink with a sparkler and and plastic monkey in it, named after the sexual innuendo of their choice.  These are likeable, funny, intelligent, ordinary people performing the most extraordinary of feats.

As the parent of young children I have been concerned at the people currently held up as 'role models' by a society that appears to exalt a nebulous notion of 'celebrity' (I cannot overstate how distasteful I find that word) where it is acceptable, nay desirous, for your sole life achievement to be having a nice bottom; and appearing on a TV 'Talent' or 'Reality' show is promoted as a genuine career option.  There are young women achieving said 'celebrity' by selling sex to high profile husbands and fathers.  How utterly delightful.

I would far rather my daughter choose to emulate people like Jessica Ennis, Katherine Grainger and Nicola Adams than Kourtney, Kim and Khloe.  People whose worth is not measured by their car or their boyfriend or what they wore last week, but by genuine talent and hard work and achievement.  Inspire a generation?  Oh, I bloody hope so.  Hell, it's even made me want to do some sport.

And so I put it to you, BBC, that we do not sully the experience by subjecting our astounding athletes to the indignity of a Sports Personality of the Year TV phone-in popularity contest.  Rather, let's spend a happy evening in December celebrating all their astonishing achievements and toasting re-runs of the Olympic montages while David Bowie's Heroes plays in the background (we'll have got over being sick of it by then), while we all get a bit pissed and misty eyed.

Fact is, they all deserve it, every one.


Friday 10 August 2012

101 uses for an injured cyclist - Part 2

Items 51-101.

So, my cyclist is damaged, but he's on the mend.  He's hoofing round the place like a wet weekend in Bognor Regis and my sympathy (in very short supply at the best of times) ran out weeks ago.  What's a girl to do with him?  Here's the run-down, numbers 51-101.

51.   Race commentator.  His operation was on the first day of the Tour de France, which at least meant he had something to occupy him while he got over the worst of it.
52.   Cycling oracle.  He called the TdF in pretty emphatic style, and did the same on the Olympic RR and TT.  We'll be doing a prediction for the Vuelta.

Things to do with a broken cyclist at the shops
53.   Local bike shop expert.  He was always an enthusiastic amateur, but his recent cycling hiatus has allowed him to really put the hours in here.
54.   Womenswear shopping companion.  'Does my bum look big in this?' Bored tone 'Yes.' Sucks everything in "What about now?' Bored tone 'Yes. No. Whatever.'
55.   Fashion guru.  It was almost worth it all to see his expression in Topshop. 'What. The. FUCK? How does that even go on?'
56.   Shoe fetishist.  The cyclist does love shoes.  Most recent proud purchases include a new pair of Bont cycling shoes and a pair of wasabi-green Clarks Wallabees.  They are nicer than they sound, honest.
57.   Holder of things.  He particularly likes it when I ask him to hold my handbag while I try something on. That's absolutely his favourite.
58.   Adorably patient and thoughtful person.  Most recently demonstrated when I had a massive geek-out in Forbidden Planet for absolutely ages and he just stood there and let me get on with it, looking slightly bemused at my sudden all consuming need for a Liquid Metal T-1000 figurine (which even he had to admit was pretty cool) and the Before Watchmen Comedian mini series.
59.   Coffee shop lover.  The sense of relief when it's all over and the poor put upon man finally gets a flat white in his hand...

The prospect of much more shopping sent him scuttling in desperation back to the turbo.  Which brings us to...

Things to do with a cyclist on a Turbo.
60.   Human Dynamo - I'm sure we could run the telly/ computer/ washing machine etc. with jump leads set up from the turbo.
61.   Central heating source.  Ooh it gets warm when he's on that turbo.  Which is cool cos it's been another totally crap summer weather wise.
62.   Human sweat factory.  In case there was ever a huge and urgent requirement for vast amounts of human sweat on a tea towel draped over a top tube, we might just have this one covered.
63.   Payback.  Sprint intervals, darling?  Why of course I'll time you!  No, I'm absolutely sure that was 30 seconds! Snigger snigger snigger.
64.   Target.  Aim and time your throw of a balled up sock just right to unleash a barrage of swearing worthy of a standing ovation.
65.   Giant cat toy.  Attracted by the whirring, Mig is obsessed with trying to murder and disembowel the turbo trainer.

Coach.
As you know, I finally have a bike to call my own.  And whether or not I actually wanted one, it would appear it came with a coach.  Quite a mean one, who's standard line is 'Do ..., or I'll poke you with a stick'.
66.   Sarcastic encourager. 'Are you going to actually ride that, or shall we just look at it?' 
67.   Saddle adjuster.  He seems to do this rather a lot while I'm on the bike.  Yes, thank you, you can move your hand now.
68.   Stem tilter.  That's an actual thing.
69.   Mechanic.  He is happy to do the required 'stuff' to my bike.  We are working on a 'Price list' - don't ask - and a loyalty card scheme.
70.   Bike washer.  Surprisingly willing to get soapy.
71.   Teacher - Oscar's stabilisers are finally off and the boy is two-wheeled!  And the cyclist didn't poke him with a stick once!
72.   Dietician.  Now he's at a point in his recovery where he faces the very real prospect of actually doing some proper training and racing again, he's gone from being a human dustbin to a borderline anorexic similar to his normal pre-season January state.
73.   Protein shake mixologist.
74.   Professional set-up consultant.  He keeps moving, changing and adjusting stuff on the bike set-up so I don't look like a rank newbie, which is kind of ironic given the second I get on the thing I give myself away horribly.
75.   Etiquette consultant.  I am slowly learning some of the unwritten rules of being a cyclist...
76.   Actual coaching.  This involves making me do things I really don't want to do, like intervals of my own (30 seconds my arse), and yelling if I object/ cry/ fall off.  I've also been told I use the word 'can't' too much!

Round the house.
DIYer.  To go with the cyclists lists that he created in phase 1 of the recovery period, I've been making him a few lists of my own, of all the little shitty things that need doing around the house now his weekends and evenings have opened up.  These are all things listed by the UN as specifically Men's Work.  For example..
77.   Spider removal and rehousing unit.
78.   Fly and wasp squasher.
79.   Putter up of shelves.  Kids room, kitchen, front room.  I do love a shelf.
80.   Changing lightbulbs.  We have very high ceilings and I am quite short.
81.   Dishwasher engineer.  Fix it man.  Fix it.
82.   Hanging pictures - yes I would be capable of doing this one myself, but I tend to be a little bit hammer happy and the cyclist actively prefers me not to merrily bang wonky holes in our walls.
83.   Designated remover of items both dead and alive supplied by the cat.  So far the sum total of the cat's hunting skills have resulted in the depositing at our feet of two leaves and a stick, but if he's anything like the last one this situation will develop to the point where it's a set of minute internal organs and a spine on the stairs in no time.  Squeam, thy name is Rebecca Love.

In the garden.
The garden is totally the domain of the cyclist.  I couldn't care any less for it - tarmac the lot as far as I'm concerned.  So it's down to the poor cyclist to stop our house being the one the rest of the street complain to the council about...
84.   Lawn mower.  The lawn situation had got so bad during the cyclist's heavy training and race schedule earlier in the season followed by the crash etc that he has actually sub-contracted this out.
85.   De-frogger of the lawn.  Occasionally a frog will appear in the garden, either dead or alive.  Now, when pushed I can deal with most things, but frogs do not come under the heading of most things.  I was once held hostage in the house for 6 hours by a frog on the front lawn while the cyclist was tackling the Strines; by the time he got home I was near hysterical and could only be heard by dogs.
86.   Trimmer of the bush.  Steady yourself, you filthy minded monkey, we're talking gardening - specifically the appallingly overgrown front hedge, which is now neat and tidy.
87.   Weeder.  I don't like weeds but will do nothing about them as a) they grow in dirt and b) there might be worms.

Husband and family man.
The kids adore their daddy.  Daddy is fun and cool and exciting, in stark contrast to mummy who couldn't be any more boring if she tried.
88.   Babysitter.  I've used the cyclist's free weekends to get a few road trips in.
89.   Doer of jigsaws.  The kids love doing jigsaws, but it usually involves them eventually moving back and project managing the installation once the edges have been completed.
90.   Climbing frame. 
91.   Comedian.  Seriously, some of the funniest things the cyclist has ever come up with has been in the last few weeks, prompted usually by the sport (TdF/ Olympics etc)
92.   Putter of the world to rights.  In much the same vein as the above.
93.   Tag team partner.  Thanks largely to the logistics of managing the school summer holidays there's been a bit of 'divide and conquer' required to organise the squids.
94.   Day tripper.  And somehow he always manages to squeeze in a stop off at a bike shop!
95.   Filler upper of water balloons.  On the rare occasions where some sun has presented itself the cyclist has retreated to the outdoor tap with a bucket and an adaptor to the kids absolute delight.
96.   Child referee.  Known to be a more reasonable and fairer arbitrator than mummy, who normally just yells something like 'You two are doing my HEAD in, you can BOTH go upstairs I don't want to hear another WORD', the kids are generally taking their issues to King Solomon daddy to be dealt with.
97.   ... Having a broken collarbone doesn't affect everything!
98.   Race marshall.  I was down to marshall at a race this Sunday, but the cyclist is taking it on seeing as he's not cleared to race yet.  I'm going along for shits and giggles - reports we're taking an arsenal of water pistols and soft fruit to throw to 'liven things up a bit' are totally unfounded.

For the rest of his life.
99.   Story teller.  Every time he tells the tale of the crash is a little different...
100.  Imagination mover. Who can come up with the best fictional back story for his rather impressive scar?
101.  Source of endless amusement / diversion at airports when he repeatedly sets the beepers off due to his new metal plate and is taken down by security.

Monday 30 July 2012

Blonde.

Why did the blonde run with the bike?  It was going too fast for her to get on...

My completely mental Grandma once told me the story of the time my uncle came home from school one day in about 1973 and said, "Mum, you're such a blonde".  Now, I realise everyone thinks their Grandma is a bit mental.  Well, sunshine, my Grandma will see your Grandma and raise you a box of frogs.  The cyclist is an extraordinary man, a bona-fide alpha male, and the only time I have ever seen him so scared that his face contorted with dread is when faced with my completely mental Grandma.  And we've had the 'Darling, wonderful news!  I'm pregnant!' conversation.  More than once.

Anyways, as a kid my Grandma was always utterly fascinated by my blondness, as I am the product of strictly very dark-haired stock.  And so it came about that I learned another definition of a blonde, albeit one I can't corroborate from any source.  According to my Grandma, my schoolboy uncle had confided to her that a blonde, as well as being a dizzy sort of fair-haired chick, is also a woman of any hair colour whos bottom overhangs her saddle when she's riding a bike.  And right now I'm pretty damn sure I could not be more blonde if I tried.  

So bottom overhang to one side (as it were), how's the rest of me bearing up now I've been on my bike a few times?

Let's start with the legs.  Have you seen 1987's Evil Dead II?  Where Ash's hand is possessed by an evil spirit and he's forced to cut it off and replace it with a chainsaw?  Well, not to be a drama queen or anything, but I think something not entirely dissimilar might be happening to my left leg.  It has definitely developed a mind of it's own, and is certainly evil (I am terming the situation Malevolent Left Leg Syndrome, or MLLS, and am self-medicating with peanut m+m's), although I'm not sure what benefit a chainsaw replacement might be at this point, and am currently exploring other options.  Seriously though, nothing, in the history of anything (and I am even including the first incarnation of Take That in the early 90's, before Gary Barlow was all suave and fit and that and he was an awkward 20-something songwriter looking distinctly embarrassed in a pair of red cycling shorts and a studded codpiece at the back on Top of the Pops who could not dance to save his chubbily self-conscious life) has ever been so off the beat as my left leg.

My right leg is fine.  A touch heavier than I'd like, plenty of room for improvement etc, but capable of maintaing a rhythm.  I am riding my bike and my right leg goes:

...push...push...push...push...push...

Which, as starting points go, is fine.  Hell, eventually it might even manage a pull or two. But when you add my left leg into the equation the situation ends up:

...push.PUSH...push...PUSH.push..PUSH..push...PUSHpush

And then I get in a mood.  And it would appear that there are few things in life less effective than getting in a mood with your own left leg.  It gives you a headache and makes you be mean to your husband.

I've been (pleasantly) surprised at how tough on the arms cycling can be.  I've always had silly weak T-Rex arms and looked jealously at hot women with toned arms (but not jealously enough to do bicep curls or anything). The only issue as far as I can tell is the likelihood of developing vibration white-finger from all the wobbling and juddering I'm doing.

And, oh! my worst enemy, my mind.  I need to find the off switch, I really do, or a mute button at the very least (seriously, if my real voice is even a fraction as harpyish and irritating as the one in my head then everyone I've ever spoken to deserves a medal for not slapping me).  I'll be going fine, actually riding my actual bike with my MLLS derived lopsided rhythm and then the little voice will start, usually with a shrill what the hell are you doing woman or you're going too FAST (I'm really not!) or a super helpful oh my god we're going to DIE and the self-doubt kicks RIGHT in and the wobblies start.  And once the wobblies have started I've found it's quite hard to get them to stop.

Having shared space with my mind for a good long time, I have come up with a few ways of tricking her - she's basically not very bright.  She can be distracted by shiny things, muted with music and is quite slow on the uptake early in the morning.  And so I have been going out on the bike at silly o'clock of a weekend morning, which is helpful on a number of levels because as well as my mind yawning and pottering about drinking tea and generally leaving me alone, it means a) the roads are very quiet, which is good for my nerves, b) the impact of me disappearing out on the bike is lessened on the family and it doesn't disrupt the day too much and, most importantly, c) No-one sees.  No-one seeing is hugely important at this time, because I am hyper aware of the fact that I look completely and utterly ridiculous.  Not, you understand, due to the bike, or the kit; but because I'm a grown woman riding a bike incredibly slowly and wonkily, who suddenly starts wobbling dangerously for no discernible reason and is muttering to herself.

So then. Possessed left leg, wobbling weak T-Rex arms and self-sabotaging psyche.  Black and blue and blonde all over.