In which our cyclist discovers the trick of using hair conditioner as leg shaving gel, leaving our heroine to go to work with frazzled ends.
These things I am learning about cycling. Your cyclist will have a very specific grooming regime. Because he is, of course, worth it. Here are some of the things you can expect.
LEGS:
Let's start with the key issue. Your cyclist's legs must be shaved. Don't turn up at a race with hairy legs (unless you are a girl in which case no-one will notice cos they're too busy checking each other out to be arsed about you in the slightest. Seriously. Pre-race, Rihanna could rock up in the car park in her underwear and only a couple of them would even notice).
My cyclist shaves his legs, and let me tell you I do not mind AT ALL. In fact, the sight of an exposed hairy leg on a man makes me feel a bit ill. Cyclists, here let me make a quick recommendation. You're home life will go far more swimmingly if on the inaugral leg-shave of the season, when you strut downstairs in your underpants for the grand reveal, you haven't left the fucking bathroom looking like you just fought a bear in there with clumps of hair everywhere and blood all up the walls. Trust me. And a quick rinse of the bath after your leg shave will go a long way all season.
As the subtitle suggests, my cyclist recently discovered the trick of using hair conditioner as shaving gel. He is most cross that he had to find it out on twitter, and accused me of keeping it from him. Now as women know, all men, cyclists or otherwise, have their own rules when it comes to the utilisation of health and beauty products (particularly ones they are nicking off the wag). There will be no portion control, no '10p sized amount', oh no. There is now no conditioner in the house ever, and I am distictly frizzy. Thank you twitter.
FACE:
Obviously, your cyclist's face should be tanned. Bonus Pro Points are awarded for distinct helmet strap / Oakley tan lines. Stubble is pretty much a pre-requisite, providing your cyclist can manage a decent covering. Please note, while stubble may be trimmed to the desired length, shaping it is a definite no-no. We are not Craig David.
TAN:
A good cyclist tan should make the cyclist look like his body and his limbs belong to different people. The sharper the tan lines, the more pro. A good distict leg tan line should be shown off as much as possible pre-race to intimidate the competition, preferably while nonchalantly applying embrocation or suntan lotion (P20 only please) with leg up against car and shorts turned back to show just how damn crisp that line really is while saying things like 'MAJORCA' 'TENERIFE' and 'ALTITUDE TRAINING'. Tans are to be compared subtly - an out and out leg-to-leg comparison is definitely not alpha-male behaviour.
Here the ugly issue of tan doping rears it's head. If you are going to tan-dope cyclist you'd better practise applying it properly, because tell tale streaky knees will see you shunned. If your cyclist does tan dope, you can be sure he will be doping with the good shit, so ladies, if your St Tropez is disappearing it might be time to step in. There are 2 options for a domestique who thinks her cyclist might be tan doping. You can either go down the 'pale is beautiful' road, or you can take him by the special mitt and show him how to do it properly. And let's be utterly clear cyclists, slapping on a handful of the Mrs' Johnsons Holiday Skin 'by accident I didn't even realise' is absolutely tan doping and you know it.
My cyclist does not condone tan doping and is prepared to offer up his biological passport details should tan doping be suspected.
There is one massive positive to the cyclist tan for us lowly domestiques. On your annual holiday you need not worry about your beach body, ladies, because your cyclists tan lines will render him completely ridiculous in his budgie smugglers.
SCABS:
Like his 9-year-old incarnation, your cyclist will regularly have a half-healed scab on his knee or elbow. This in itself is acceptable, and pretty pro. Excessive scabs are not pro, they just mark you out as falling off a lot. The odd scar is a mark of honour too, and it's totally true - chicks dig scars. Let me tell you what chicks do not dig however, Hincapie-style poppy leg veins. Ew.
CHAMOIS CREAM:
Your cyclist will apply chamois cream to his undercarriage or chamois. According to my cyclist this prevents his bits ending up in a 'torrid' state. I have no idea what that means and absolutely no desire to find out. My cyclist applys direct to his 'area', and there is a special face he makes while undergoing the process. It's something I'm trying to learn to live with.
Thursday 26 April 2012
Friday 20 April 2012
Paris Roubaix - Don't take away my break away
In which our heroine watches Tom bang his drums and almost certainly get one on each end.
It took a while for my cyclist to fall back in love with the sport that was no longer part of his life. It started accidentally with the Tour de France one July when there was nothing better on the telly, and gradually gradually reeled us both in, him for the second time and me for the first.
The sprint stages were then and are still my least favourite of races, much as I love me some Cav. You might as well have them spin round the block a couple of times and run in the last 5k to my mind. And yes, I know I'm missing the point; the potential for drama, the splits, the echelons, the beauty of the peloton snaking through the scenery, pretty helecopter shots of castles etc and so on. Yawnsome; I'll only be arsed enough to half-watch the highlights show, and that's really only to make sure none of the GC boys did anything silly, like fall over.
When I first started idly watching those stages I had no idea how it all worked. I would look on aghast as the peloton cat-and-moused with a plucky few who had found themselves a few minutes up the road, bouncing those unsuspecting riders on an invisible string before snapping them back and swallowing them whole so some protected fella hidden in the pack all day could thunder across the finish line with his hands in the air, while a fraction of a second behind him other similarly packaged and delivered fellas who I couldn't pick out of a line up thump their handlebars in dismay. It seemed so unfair. I hadn't worked out that a breakaway could be more than merely a means to an end but frequently, to the smaller teams at least, the end in itself. The breakaway is more often than not doomed to fail, a suicide mission. An offering by the sponsors to the Gods of television... oh you got the point. Way before I did.
But sometimes there is different breakaway story. The riders that simply break away because they're stronger, tougher, smarter, braver. The ones I love to watch, who fight hard and deserve to win. The winners who don't merely contest the last 200m of a race, but the whole sodding thing, start to finish. These are no exercises in sponsor-pleasing, no kamikaze attempts to borrow the spotlight of the TV camera for a bit before handing it back to a bigger boy; but the rider wapping his balls out and taking the race on.
That's how I feel about Tom Boonen's win at Paris Roubaix. No-one thought he could do it like he did it. But he did. With 50-odd k left to go he disappeared down the road and the internet lit up, mainly with comments along the lines of 'What the HELL is he doing?!'. But he knew better and he showed us all and bloody well done to him. He saw his moment and he took his chance, and recorded a win that was undeniable. No holding someone else's wheel 'til the crucial final seconds, no lead out, no mental chess with a companion rider, just him and the bike and the road. And I loved it.
NOTE
One day, when I was being particularly difficult, I asked my cyclist why there were two podium girls for the winner. He looked at me like I was quite possibly not intelligent enough to breathe unaided.
'Why the hell do you think? One on each end!
...Side! SIDE! I MEANT SIDE! ONE ON EACH SIDE!'
But if ever a rider has managed to get a podium girl on each end, my money's on Tommeke.
It took a while for my cyclist to fall back in love with the sport that was no longer part of his life. It started accidentally with the Tour de France one July when there was nothing better on the telly, and gradually gradually reeled us both in, him for the second time and me for the first.
The sprint stages were then and are still my least favourite of races, much as I love me some Cav. You might as well have them spin round the block a couple of times and run in the last 5k to my mind. And yes, I know I'm missing the point; the potential for drama, the splits, the echelons, the beauty of the peloton snaking through the scenery, pretty helecopter shots of castles etc and so on. Yawnsome; I'll only be arsed enough to half-watch the highlights show, and that's really only to make sure none of the GC boys did anything silly, like fall over.
When I first started idly watching those stages I had no idea how it all worked. I would look on aghast as the peloton cat-and-moused with a plucky few who had found themselves a few minutes up the road, bouncing those unsuspecting riders on an invisible string before snapping them back and swallowing them whole so some protected fella hidden in the pack all day could thunder across the finish line with his hands in the air, while a fraction of a second behind him other similarly packaged and delivered fellas who I couldn't pick out of a line up thump their handlebars in dismay. It seemed so unfair. I hadn't worked out that a breakaway could be more than merely a means to an end but frequently, to the smaller teams at least, the end in itself. The breakaway is more often than not doomed to fail, a suicide mission. An offering by the sponsors to the Gods of television... oh you got the point. Way before I did.
But sometimes there is different breakaway story. The riders that simply break away because they're stronger, tougher, smarter, braver. The ones I love to watch, who fight hard and deserve to win. The winners who don't merely contest the last 200m of a race, but the whole sodding thing, start to finish. These are no exercises in sponsor-pleasing, no kamikaze attempts to borrow the spotlight of the TV camera for a bit before handing it back to a bigger boy; but the rider wapping his balls out and taking the race on.
That's how I feel about Tom Boonen's win at Paris Roubaix. No-one thought he could do it like he did it. But he did. With 50-odd k left to go he disappeared down the road and the internet lit up, mainly with comments along the lines of 'What the HELL is he doing?!'. But he knew better and he showed us all and bloody well done to him. He saw his moment and he took his chance, and recorded a win that was undeniable. No holding someone else's wheel 'til the crucial final seconds, no lead out, no mental chess with a companion rider, just him and the bike and the road. And I loved it.
NOTE
One day, when I was being particularly difficult, I asked my cyclist why there were two podium girls for the winner. He looked at me like I was quite possibly not intelligent enough to breathe unaided.
'Why the hell do you think? One on each end!
...Side! SIDE! I MEANT SIDE! ONE ON EACH SIDE!'
But if ever a rider has managed to get a podium girl on each end, my money's on Tommeke.
Sunday 8 April 2012
Shut Up, Liver!
The Official Written Rules of the Official Drinking Game Officially of Paris-Roubaix.
Kind, encouraging souls have enquired as to the rules of the Paris-Roubaix drinking game, Shut up, Liver! So I made some up.
Management accept no responsibility for any loss or damage resulting from attempting Shut up, Liver!, permanent or otherwise. We recommend you play using beer, cider, Long Island Iced Tea etc, playing using actual shots of hard spirits may kill you.
When to drink:
Drink for a puncture (sip)
Drink on a bike change (1 shot)
Drink for a crash (1 shot)
Drink if a rider is taken out by any of the following (2 shots):
Kind, encouraging souls have enquired as to the rules of the Paris-Roubaix drinking game, Shut up, Liver! So I made some up.
Management accept no responsibility for any loss or damage resulting from attempting Shut up, Liver!, permanent or otherwise. We recommend you play using beer, cider, Long Island Iced Tea etc, playing using actual shots of hard spirits may kill you.
When to drink:
Drink for a puncture (sip)
Drink on a bike change (1 shot)
Drink for a crash (1 shot)
Drink if a rider is taken out by any of the following (2 shots):
- Spectator
- Street Furniture
- Musette/ Jettisoned Bidon
- Animal
- Race Vehicle
- Direct Meteor Strike
Drink every time one of the following are mentioned by the commentators (1 shot):
- Cancellara
- Merckx
- Museeuw
- Ridley Scott
- Delilah Cavendish
Drink if a Euskaltel gets in the front break (2 shots)
Drink if you see a streaker (1 shot)
Drink if you see 3 blondes in Sky Jerseys waving a glittery Union flag with 'STANNARD' on it (1 shot).
Happy oblivion! I sincerely hope this hospitalises no-one.
Monday 2 April 2012
As easy as falling off a bike.
In which our heroine gets 'The Call'.
Even if you have had the foresight to expressly forbid your cyclist from falling off his bike, it's inevitable really. What goes up must come down, and all that. And what goes reasonably quickly on two wheels is going to hit the deck at some point.
It was a Friday in February, about 3pm, and the cyclist had been out for 5 hours on a long ride, when I got a call on my mobile. I knew instantly (wives always know).
'Are you hurt?'
'Yes.' Simple, to the point.
'Where are you?'
He gave me the address, and I got in the car, hands shaking a normal amount.
The drive was less than 15mins, he was within 5 miles of home. And I knew he wasn't seriously hurt - he had called me, not an ambulance. I'd checked with him and it was a straightforward wipe out, no other vehicle involvement; one of my biggest fears is he comes off and gets hit by something behind him not paying attention while he's on the ground.
So while I was in the car and on my way I could get on with the serious business of worrying about the bike. Because the train of thought in my tiny mind had leapt from Oh my God are you OK to Oh my God is your bike OK about 1/100 of a nanosecond after finding out he wasn't badly damaged. And being brutally honest, Oh my God is your bike OK *really* means Oh my God how much is this going to cost.
I hadn't dared ask about the state of the bike when he'd rung, eager to get to him rather than prolong the conversation, and worried I guess about what his answer would be. Not only was the fear of the expense of a shattered frame or knackered wheels a very real one, I knew he'd be bloody unbearable if his bike was out of action pending repair or replacement for any length of time (by that I mean longer than about 2 days).
In the event, we got off lightly. He had shielded the bike from any major damage with his body (smart, huh?) - the rear derailleur hanger was a write off, bent in so far he couldn't drop the wheel out to get it in the car, and there were a couple scuffs and scrapes - enough very minor damage to stop him attempting to ride home, which can only have been a good thing.
The cyclist got off pretty lightly too, really. Adrenaline kept him from feeling the worst of it until I'd got him home. One skinless zombie looking knee that oozed mingingly for a few days, a blow to the chest that developed into some grubby looking yellowish bruises and a nasty knock to the wrist that resulted in an X-Ray a week later was the sum total of the physical effects.
Sadly the lycra he was wearing that day had to be put out of it's misery. We buried it in a shoebox in the bottom of the garden.
Even if you have had the foresight to expressly forbid your cyclist from falling off his bike, it's inevitable really. What goes up must come down, and all that. And what goes reasonably quickly on two wheels is going to hit the deck at some point.
It was a Friday in February, about 3pm, and the cyclist had been out for 5 hours on a long ride, when I got a call on my mobile. I knew instantly (wives always know).
'Are you hurt?'
'Yes.' Simple, to the point.
'Where are you?'
He gave me the address, and I got in the car, hands shaking a normal amount.
The drive was less than 15mins, he was within 5 miles of home. And I knew he wasn't seriously hurt - he had called me, not an ambulance. I'd checked with him and it was a straightforward wipe out, no other vehicle involvement; one of my biggest fears is he comes off and gets hit by something behind him not paying attention while he's on the ground.
So while I was in the car and on my way I could get on with the serious business of worrying about the bike. Because the train of thought in my tiny mind had leapt from Oh my God are you OK to Oh my God is your bike OK about 1/100 of a nanosecond after finding out he wasn't badly damaged. And being brutally honest, Oh my God is your bike OK *really* means Oh my God how much is this going to cost.
I hadn't dared ask about the state of the bike when he'd rung, eager to get to him rather than prolong the conversation, and worried I guess about what his answer would be. Not only was the fear of the expense of a shattered frame or knackered wheels a very real one, I knew he'd be bloody unbearable if his bike was out of action pending repair or replacement for any length of time (by that I mean longer than about 2 days).
In the event, we got off lightly. He had shielded the bike from any major damage with his body (smart, huh?) - the rear derailleur hanger was a write off, bent in so far he couldn't drop the wheel out to get it in the car, and there were a couple scuffs and scrapes - enough very minor damage to stop him attempting to ride home, which can only have been a good thing.
The cyclist got off pretty lightly too, really. Adrenaline kept him from feeling the worst of it until I'd got him home. One skinless zombie looking knee that oozed mingingly for a few days, a blow to the chest that developed into some grubby looking yellowish bruises and a nasty knock to the wrist that resulted in an X-Ray a week later was the sum total of the physical effects.
Sadly the lycra he was wearing that day had to be put out of it's misery. We buried it in a shoebox in the bottom of the garden.
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