In which our heroine gets her knickers in a twist and her Sky+ filled up with highlights footage.
My cyclist told me, once I'd finally grudgingly admitted that watching cycling on the telly wasn't akin to cruel and unusual punishment for shoplifting employed by the likes of Al Qaeda and probably was better than Emmerdale after all, that I would eventually grow to love the Classics above all other races. While I won't deny I enjoy these races, I still prefer a good solid stage race to get my teeth into. Paris-Nice? Why don't mind if I do! etc.
And yay! It's May! So thanks to the Giro, and now AToC, the Skybox is full and I'm not even kidding. I've just had to delete 2 entire and unwatched series of The Wire just to make room for Jersey Shore (I think we'll all agree as to which is the more seminal televisual masterpiece). But oh! The palaver!
Dearest Eurosport, home to the cringworthy Sidi adverts that make me feel like I want to dettol my eyes and the gruntiest of Eastern European Women's Tennis, a question for you - and this is important: How hard exactly is it to timetable a highlights programme for the same time every day? ITV4 manage it (when they cover the races, that is) - 7 'til 8, after The Sweeney; we all know where we stand. Wrangling with Eurosport and the Sky+ gives me The Fear. The sodding thing won't series link and I don't know why, and the coverage on at 6pm on Tuesday and 11pm on Wednesday, and somehow we've got Stage 5 twice and no Stage 6, and here's 45 minutes of Ladies Curling that I'm sure I didn't order. I have to sit down every couple of days and go through the listings with a fine toothed comb, setting to record each of the installments individually, hoping against hope that I don't fuck it up.
Oh god I haven't set it up for the Tour Series yet...
But anyway. The Giro. I've got a horrible, terrible dirty little secret. I'm not really 'getting' it, and I couldn't work out why. It all started so promisingly. I LOVE a TTT. LOVE, with capitals and italics and everything. Generally, TT's are my absolute favourite stages anyway - Race of Truth and not half - but a TTT?! *Claps hands and reaches for the Ferrero Rocher* But it's all fallen apart for me a little bit since then.
Now, this is worrying me. You see, I've read ProCycling and I know full well the Giro is supposedly the connoisseur's Grand Tour. Thems what knows these things says this one is the best. This is the sophisticated Green and Blacks 70% Organic Dark Chocolate to the Cadbury Twirl of the Tour de France. Oh! So obvious! But me and the Giro just aren't working out, and it was last night, while discussing this very topic with the cyclist and a glass of wine and watching Stage 1 of the AToC that I worked out why. You see, it's not the Giro, it's me.
I'm new to all this, not steeped in the romance and history of it all; a major aspect of the sport which seems so important to so many and that I really haven't got my head around yet. I like my shit flash and brash, and frankly I'm not going to apologise for that. I watch Grey's Anatomy, not Casualty. I couldn't care less for gritty Ken Loach dramas - I want Bruce Willis crashing a police car into a helicopter. So there's the Giro... and then there's AToC. AToC, with its riders I actually recognise (Oh! I like him! Oh! And him!), its shiny clean all-American glow, and (and this is more important than it probably should be) its Tupac soundtrack (shake it shake it baby).
I understand all the reasons why the AToC exists (basically it boils down to selling stuff) and all the reasons why there are so many big-name riders over there (basically it boils down to selling stuff). But I have no problem with selling stuff. Sell away! The more stuff you sell, the more races there will be for me to watch! The AToC seems (to a newbie at least) a little more easily accessible than the Giro.
[Please note - even I am aware that AToC is not a Grand Tour. My comparison of the 2 races stems from the fact that they are running concurrently, not that they are equal in status.]
I haven't given up on the Giro just yet, though. There's still plenty of time for me to fall in love...
And I suppose that's another of the things that's so great about cycling - it really does cater for everyone, from the lifelong aficionado to the daft blonde who can't work the Sky+.
Tuesday, 15 May 2012
Friday, 11 May 2012
A day at the races - part 2
So your cyclist is going round in circles with other cyclists. What now?
You may find yourself on the side of a hill on a cold sunday morning. You may ask yourself, well how did I get here. Well the bottom line is I love my cyclist and I want to support him. And the people you get supporting other cyclists at these races are kind and friendly and inclusive, you will always find someone to chat to.
Although they will sometimes be in attendance, I like to NOT always take our kids to the cyclist's races for various reasons. Firstly, sadly, they get bored. Secondly, your cyclist will have filled the car up with all the essential kit items he absolutely needs, but which for mysterious reasons only he can explain will never make it out of the bag. This leaves precious little room in any vehicle for small people, and the vast arrays of crap that they too will inevitably require. Thirdly, it gives you immunity to use your 'special cheering words' during the race without having to explain what a bellend is and why they shouldn't say it in front of their Grandma. Fourthly, you have to watch small kids like hawks at races, for their own safety and that of the riders.
I always find crits are the most fun for attending en famille; Daddy swings past every couple of minutes and as a spectator you have a much better feel for what's actually going on in the race. Also, they tend to be of a shorter time duration, so are more likely to hold everyones attention, and sometimes they are in town centres so you can do a bit of stealth shopping and hide it in the car and the cyclists never even notice. (If there's space in the car that is. But I've found you can usually get a pair of jeans and 3 t-shirts under each child if you bribe them with a muffin.) From a spectators point of view, the crits tend to include some of the more entertaining swearing from the riders; the doppler shift lending particular added comedy value to the word 'Dickheeeeeeeeeeeead'. This is Sparta, baby.
Sadly, your cyclist will not always finish his race. If your cyclist has the misfortune to get a puncture or a mechanical and have to climb off he: will have been going brilliantly / it's the best he's felt all season / he would have got top three, definitely - delete as applicable. Always agree. If he crashes, it was: the other guys fault / the trees fault / the roads round here are rubbish / the weather was in his eyes - please select your option(s) from the list.
Post race, watch the riders come back in to the HQ. Generally, what has happened on the road stays on the road, even if they've been screaming their heads off at each other for 100k there tends to be a grubby and slightly battered lycra-clad battlefield camaraderie. Like if they were X-Men or something, but they had been ill. The races I have attended have been brilliant on the post-race set-up tea, coffee and cake in glorious abundance. Your cyclist will require refuelling pretty much immediately - in fairness they burn thousands of calories. We take a protein shake bidon for after the race. I have an extraordinary innate ability for making up protein shakes, I can get them extra lumpy. Usually after a cup of tea, a piece of cake and a chew of his protein shake, my cyclist is fit to hold a conversation and contemplate peeling off the lycra and facing the real world.
Once he's summoned up the energy, your cyclist will have a little wipe down (a cyclists bath) with his very pro eau de cologne water spray and a handtowel he brought with him for the purpose. If (when) he has forgotton his handtowel, he will use his underpants. You or he will need to unpin his race numbers and hand them back in to retrieve his license - I LOVE doing this cos sometimes they let you rummage through all the licenses to get yours and you get to spy at everyones pic and they all look like serial killers. Finally it's on with the sweatpants and trainers, and home! (To Burger King!)
And if you're lucky, you'll get to wash his kit...
You may find yourself on the side of a hill on a cold sunday morning. You may ask yourself, well how did I get here. Well the bottom line is I love my cyclist and I want to support him. And the people you get supporting other cyclists at these races are kind and friendly and inclusive, you will always find someone to chat to.
Although they will sometimes be in attendance, I like to NOT always take our kids to the cyclist's races for various reasons. Firstly, sadly, they get bored. Secondly, your cyclist will have filled the car up with all the essential kit items he absolutely needs, but which for mysterious reasons only he can explain will never make it out of the bag. This leaves precious little room in any vehicle for small people, and the vast arrays of crap that they too will inevitably require. Thirdly, it gives you immunity to use your 'special cheering words' during the race without having to explain what a bellend is and why they shouldn't say it in front of their Grandma. Fourthly, you have to watch small kids like hawks at races, for their own safety and that of the riders.
I always find crits are the most fun for attending en famille; Daddy swings past every couple of minutes and as a spectator you have a much better feel for what's actually going on in the race. Also, they tend to be of a shorter time duration, so are more likely to hold everyones attention, and sometimes they are in town centres so you can do a bit of stealth shopping and hide it in the car and the cyclists never even notice. (If there's space in the car that is. But I've found you can usually get a pair of jeans and 3 t-shirts under each child if you bribe them with a muffin.) From a spectators point of view, the crits tend to include some of the more entertaining swearing from the riders; the doppler shift lending particular added comedy value to the word 'Dickheeeeeeeeeeeead'. This is Sparta, baby.
Sadly, your cyclist will not always finish his race. If your cyclist has the misfortune to get a puncture or a mechanical and have to climb off he: will have been going brilliantly / it's the best he's felt all season / he would have got top three, definitely - delete as applicable. Always agree. If he crashes, it was: the other guys fault / the trees fault / the roads round here are rubbish / the weather was in his eyes - please select your option(s) from the list.
Post race, watch the riders come back in to the HQ. Generally, what has happened on the road stays on the road, even if they've been screaming their heads off at each other for 100k there tends to be a grubby and slightly battered lycra-clad battlefield camaraderie. Like if they were X-Men or something, but they had been ill. The races I have attended have been brilliant on the post-race set-up tea, coffee and cake in glorious abundance. Your cyclist will require refuelling pretty much immediately - in fairness they burn thousands of calories. We take a protein shake bidon for after the race. I have an extraordinary innate ability for making up protein shakes, I can get them extra lumpy. Usually after a cup of tea, a piece of cake and a chew of his protein shake, my cyclist is fit to hold a conversation and contemplate peeling off the lycra and facing the real world.
Once he's summoned up the energy, your cyclist will have a little wipe down (a cyclists bath) with his very pro eau de cologne water spray and a handtowel he brought with him for the purpose. If (when) he has forgotton his handtowel, he will use his underpants. You or he will need to unpin his race numbers and hand them back in to retrieve his license - I LOVE doing this cos sometimes they let you rummage through all the licenses to get yours and you get to spy at everyones pic and they all look like serial killers. Finally it's on with the sweatpants and trainers, and home! (To Burger King!)
And if you're lucky, you'll get to wash his kit...
Monday, 7 May 2012
A day at the races - part 1.
In which our heroine bravely faces full-frontal male nudity in a village hall car park at 9am on a Sunday morning.
They're not shy, cyclists. And God, I love my mirrored aviators. It's like Mr Ban knew.
Well, I'm not going to insult you, dear reader, by trying to suggest for one minute that I don't know where to look. I know full well where to look, and the effort of not looking is blinking SUPERHUMAN. And exhibitionist cyclists are just one of the things you need to be prepared for if you find yourself attending a race in support of your cyclist.
Ladies, please note I can only speak from my own limited experience. If you are to attend (for example) a stage of the Giro and don't see Bernie Eisel's willy in a village hall car park before the stage start it's not my fault, I suspect it might work slightly differently at WorldTour level. Or maybe not. Might be worth a try, eh?
Races seem to be ridiculously early on a Sunday morning. And generally (the ones up here anyway) they are in the middle of nowhere. So be prepared to be up at bollocks o'clock, pale and bleary-eyed, making porridge; as prior to racing your cyclist you will need to 'load' him. One time the cyclist requested pasta for pre-race breakfast. He got it, but strangely enough it didn't hit the spot at 6.30am and porridge has been henceforth officially proclaimed the 'Breakfast of Champions'.
Pre-race, your cyclist will probably be stomping around in a right arse as he performs the rituals of Getting His Kit Together and Loading the Car; the ProTip here is to ignore him and watch cartoons as your involvement will not be required until a 10-minute round of Hunt the Heart Rate Monitor Chest Strap, and possibly a quick go of Where's the Car Key (You Had It Last). Also, expect the drive to the race to be conducted in near-silence as he gets his race head on.
The race HQ is likely to be a Village Hall, with parking spaces for about 6 cars. You will almost certainly be parked on a grass verge about a quarter of a mile down the road with someone's Punto up your arse. Let me make a serious point here; ladies, do not go to the toilet in the race HQ before the race. I cannot emphasise this enough. If you're lucky, you'll be faced with the sight of a couple of 3rd cats doing their Chamois Cream face in the ladies. If you're unlucky, you'll wish it had been the 3rd cats Chamois Cream face. In fact, don't go to the loo at all. These cyclists have no regard for the differentiation of the Mens and Ladies facilities. Prior to the race there will be 60 fellas 'getting to race weight' in there. And after they've all set off, the loos will be Glastonbury-level post-apocalyptic. And they'll have used all the tracing-paper type bogroll. Either go in the service station on the way to the race, or get to the HQ 3 hours before everyone else and ring yourself out and don't so much as suck a wine gum after that. And if you require a caffeine hit because it's a Sunday and it's 8AM, you will be better off eating a spoonful or two of nescafe granules than having a coffee. This is one of those times in life where dehydration is your friend.
So, back to the rampant nudity in the carpark. A few tips: Focus on the middle distance. For your own sake, NEVER casually glance through a car window; no good can come of it. And if you are mid-conversation with a complete stranger about, say, the weather, or the road conditions and he starts stripping off and getting changed don't be too surprised.
As well as the exhibitionism, there will be a certain amount of posturing, pouting and preening going on prior to the start of the race as the cyclists puff out their chests and show off their plumage. Ignore it. It's not for your benefit, ladies, they couldn't be less interested. They are trying to psyche each other out. Some of it will work, most of it's bollocks. If you catch someone trying to psyche out your cyclist, you are well within your rights to give them evils.
Once the race has started you may find you need to get back in the car and drive for a bit to actually get to the race, as the HQ is often a few miles away from the action. Make sure you have some form of entertainment for yourself. The majority of races I have attended have been laps of about 9 or 10 kilometres, and mainly involve me sitting in the car for 20mins at a time between getting out and having a clap and yelling a few words of encouragement (keep them general in case you have accidentally mis-identified your cyclist and are cheering on someone else's. I've heard this can happen.). Take a book, a magazine, your iPod, knitting, Rosetta Stone Foreign Language CD etc. And in the extremely rare event of the weather Gods smiling on the race, take some sort of folding chair. If you do have a folding chair you will be far more pro at this than me, cos I always mean to take one and I always forget.
Generally speaking, supporting at the race is pretty fun, providing the weather is not totally grim. There is a blitz spirit camaraderie between the hardy spectators, dressed in everything they own and trying to remember which bidon's got the special energy drink mix in and which one's got the protein shake in. The worst part about being race support crew is being asked to run the gauntlet that is 'The Feed'. I dread being asked to do 'The Feed', which appears to consist of playing chicken with 60 fellas doing 40kph up a hill while they swear at each other, with your eyes tight shut and one arm stuck out into the road. You then get an empty bidon chucked at your head and 2 of your fingers broken passing across a full one, all while trying not to cry or do a wee. If you're lucky, you'll only have to do it once in a race. If you're really lucky, you won't need to do it at all, your cyclist recognising the abject terror in your eyes and deciding you'll only mess it up anyway and he's better off pacing the bottles he's got.
They're not shy, cyclists. And God, I love my mirrored aviators. It's like Mr Ban knew.
Well, I'm not going to insult you, dear reader, by trying to suggest for one minute that I don't know where to look. I know full well where to look, and the effort of not looking is blinking SUPERHUMAN. And exhibitionist cyclists are just one of the things you need to be prepared for if you find yourself attending a race in support of your cyclist.
Ladies, please note I can only speak from my own limited experience. If you are to attend (for example) a stage of the Giro and don't see Bernie Eisel's willy in a village hall car park before the stage start it's not my fault, I suspect it might work slightly differently at WorldTour level. Or maybe not. Might be worth a try, eh?
Races seem to be ridiculously early on a Sunday morning. And generally (the ones up here anyway) they are in the middle of nowhere. So be prepared to be up at bollocks o'clock, pale and bleary-eyed, making porridge; as prior to racing your cyclist you will need to 'load' him. One time the cyclist requested pasta for pre-race breakfast. He got it, but strangely enough it didn't hit the spot at 6.30am and porridge has been henceforth officially proclaimed the 'Breakfast of Champions'.
Pre-race, your cyclist will probably be stomping around in a right arse as he performs the rituals of Getting His Kit Together and Loading the Car; the ProTip here is to ignore him and watch cartoons as your involvement will not be required until a 10-minute round of Hunt the Heart Rate Monitor Chest Strap, and possibly a quick go of Where's the Car Key (You Had It Last). Also, expect the drive to the race to be conducted in near-silence as he gets his race head on.
The race HQ is likely to be a Village Hall, with parking spaces for about 6 cars. You will almost certainly be parked on a grass verge about a quarter of a mile down the road with someone's Punto up your arse. Let me make a serious point here; ladies, do not go to the toilet in the race HQ before the race. I cannot emphasise this enough. If you're lucky, you'll be faced with the sight of a couple of 3rd cats doing their Chamois Cream face in the ladies. If you're unlucky, you'll wish it had been the 3rd cats Chamois Cream face. In fact, don't go to the loo at all. These cyclists have no regard for the differentiation of the Mens and Ladies facilities. Prior to the race there will be 60 fellas 'getting to race weight' in there. And after they've all set off, the loos will be Glastonbury-level post-apocalyptic. And they'll have used all the tracing-paper type bogroll. Either go in the service station on the way to the race, or get to the HQ 3 hours before everyone else and ring yourself out and don't so much as suck a wine gum after that. And if you require a caffeine hit because it's a Sunday and it's 8AM, you will be better off eating a spoonful or two of nescafe granules than having a coffee. This is one of those times in life where dehydration is your friend.
So, back to the rampant nudity in the carpark. A few tips: Focus on the middle distance. For your own sake, NEVER casually glance through a car window; no good can come of it. And if you are mid-conversation with a complete stranger about, say, the weather, or the road conditions and he starts stripping off and getting changed don't be too surprised.
As well as the exhibitionism, there will be a certain amount of posturing, pouting and preening going on prior to the start of the race as the cyclists puff out their chests and show off their plumage. Ignore it. It's not for your benefit, ladies, they couldn't be less interested. They are trying to psyche each other out. Some of it will work, most of it's bollocks. If you catch someone trying to psyche out your cyclist, you are well within your rights to give them evils.
Once the race has started you may find you need to get back in the car and drive for a bit to actually get to the race, as the HQ is often a few miles away from the action. Make sure you have some form of entertainment for yourself. The majority of races I have attended have been laps of about 9 or 10 kilometres, and mainly involve me sitting in the car for 20mins at a time between getting out and having a clap and yelling a few words of encouragement (keep them general in case you have accidentally mis-identified your cyclist and are cheering on someone else's. I've heard this can happen.). Take a book, a magazine, your iPod, knitting, Rosetta Stone Foreign Language CD etc. And in the extremely rare event of the weather Gods smiling on the race, take some sort of folding chair. If you do have a folding chair you will be far more pro at this than me, cos I always mean to take one and I always forget.
Generally speaking, supporting at the race is pretty fun, providing the weather is not totally grim. There is a blitz spirit camaraderie between the hardy spectators, dressed in everything they own and trying to remember which bidon's got the special energy drink mix in and which one's got the protein shake in. The worst part about being race support crew is being asked to run the gauntlet that is 'The Feed'. I dread being asked to do 'The Feed', which appears to consist of playing chicken with 60 fellas doing 40kph up a hill while they swear at each other, with your eyes tight shut and one arm stuck out into the road. You then get an empty bidon chucked at your head and 2 of your fingers broken passing across a full one, all while trying not to cry or do a wee. If you're lucky, you'll only have to do it once in a race. If you're really lucky, you won't need to do it at all, your cyclist recognising the abject terror in your eyes and deciding you'll only mess it up anyway and he's better off pacing the bottles he's got.
Thursday, 3 May 2012
Finnegan, Begin Again.
In which we look at the event that got our cyclist back on his bike. Because they always come back.
My cyclist barely touched a bike in 10 years. For 7 of those years he was with me. And as time progressed the realisation dawned that I would one day have to share him with the bike. I watched it happen, saw the seed planted and the desire grow. It began to cast a foreshadow, so much so that there was almost a sense of relief when the day finally came and the bike came out of the loft.
I have no-one but myself to blame. You see, I think it was our honeymoon that was the event horizon, and I had booked it. Our son was 2 when we got around to getting married. For our honeymoon we had a few days in the south of France, just the two of us with Oscar packed off to his grandparents, then when we got back we trotted off en famille to Center Parcs for a weeks 'Familymoon'. I had never experienced the joy of a week at Center Parcs before, and full of good intentions had booked us some extortionately priced family based activities. The most memorable of these was 'Toddler Dance' - a mini disco for the under 4's. Oscar refused point blank to have any involvement in this whatsoever; he stood at my side glowering as only a 2 year old can. Eventually, he selected the sturdiest looking child in the room, marched up to him, and in front of an array of assembled parents bit him square on the arm. It was that kind of family break. And in the best traditions it pissed down. God, it pissed down.
To add to the fun we had also booked bike hire, bikes being the official mode of transport at Center Parcs. Bike hire was an eye-opener, for both of us and for different reasons. Sensible, sporty, outdoorsy types will take their own bikes with them on a jaunt of this type. I am none of those things - added to which I didn't then and I don't now own a bike. The cyclist's bikes were at this point in the loft, out of sight and out of mind. So we had a couple of nasty hire jobs thrust at us, with a toddler trailer fixed to the cyclist's for the little emporer to be wheeled about in.
But it was this crappy hire bike that was the first link in the chain of events that led the then ex-cyclist to becoming a cyclist once more. This hire bike that reminded him just how much he had loved being a cyclist, and planted the seed that led us to where we are now.
It took the cyclist about 30 seconds to rediscover the joy of being on a bike. Approximately the same amount of time it took me to be reduced to tears by the experience. My thighs burned, my lungs burned, my bum burned. None of this was in a 'good burn' way, or fun, or liberating, I was just miserable. I spent about 2 days wrapping various items of increasingly bulky clothing around the saddle and myself and whining, moaning and generally being a little bitch about the whole thing, before giving up entirely and walking everywhere - often leaving 20mins or so before the cyclist so as to arrive at the same time.
It took another 2 years for the inertia to be fully overcome and the return to really take hold. For the bike and the kit to come out of the loft and the situation to snowball wildly thanks to bike magazines and bike shops and bike websites and bike shows and bike catalogues.
The return to the bike seems to be a recurring theme. Ex-cyclists don't stay ex-cyclists forever. They dismount, retire, give up, turn their backs. But whatever their reasons for walking away, be it the politics, the preparation, the pressure - it's not the bike. Never the bike. And it's the bike which lures them back, sooner or later.
So now the cyclist has returned to his first and, saving that which he has for our children, perhaps his truest love. And this time it's on his terms. Once a cyclist, always a cyclist.
My cyclist barely touched a bike in 10 years. For 7 of those years he was with me. And as time progressed the realisation dawned that I would one day have to share him with the bike. I watched it happen, saw the seed planted and the desire grow. It began to cast a foreshadow, so much so that there was almost a sense of relief when the day finally came and the bike came out of the loft.
I have no-one but myself to blame. You see, I think it was our honeymoon that was the event horizon, and I had booked it. Our son was 2 when we got around to getting married. For our honeymoon we had a few days in the south of France, just the two of us with Oscar packed off to his grandparents, then when we got back we trotted off en famille to Center Parcs for a weeks 'Familymoon'. I had never experienced the joy of a week at Center Parcs before, and full of good intentions had booked us some extortionately priced family based activities. The most memorable of these was 'Toddler Dance' - a mini disco for the under 4's. Oscar refused point blank to have any involvement in this whatsoever; he stood at my side glowering as only a 2 year old can. Eventually, he selected the sturdiest looking child in the room, marched up to him, and in front of an array of assembled parents bit him square on the arm. It was that kind of family break. And in the best traditions it pissed down. God, it pissed down.
To add to the fun we had also booked bike hire, bikes being the official mode of transport at Center Parcs. Bike hire was an eye-opener, for both of us and for different reasons. Sensible, sporty, outdoorsy types will take their own bikes with them on a jaunt of this type. I am none of those things - added to which I didn't then and I don't now own a bike. The cyclist's bikes were at this point in the loft, out of sight and out of mind. So we had a couple of nasty hire jobs thrust at us, with a toddler trailer fixed to the cyclist's for the little emporer to be wheeled about in.
But it was this crappy hire bike that was the first link in the chain of events that led the then ex-cyclist to becoming a cyclist once more. This hire bike that reminded him just how much he had loved being a cyclist, and planted the seed that led us to where we are now.
It took the cyclist about 30 seconds to rediscover the joy of being on a bike. Approximately the same amount of time it took me to be reduced to tears by the experience. My thighs burned, my lungs burned, my bum burned. None of this was in a 'good burn' way, or fun, or liberating, I was just miserable. I spent about 2 days wrapping various items of increasingly bulky clothing around the saddle and myself and whining, moaning and generally being a little bitch about the whole thing, before giving up entirely and walking everywhere - often leaving 20mins or so before the cyclist so as to arrive at the same time.
It took another 2 years for the inertia to be fully overcome and the return to really take hold. For the bike and the kit to come out of the loft and the situation to snowball wildly thanks to bike magazines and bike shops and bike websites and bike shows and bike catalogues.
The return to the bike seems to be a recurring theme. Ex-cyclists don't stay ex-cyclists forever. They dismount, retire, give up, turn their backs. But whatever their reasons for walking away, be it the politics, the preparation, the pressure - it's not the bike. Never the bike. And it's the bike which lures them back, sooner or later.
So now the cyclist has returned to his first and, saving that which he has for our children, perhaps his truest love. And this time it's on his terms. Once a cyclist, always a cyclist.
Thursday, 26 April 2012
Stubble is for the face, not the legs.
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.
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.
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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