In which our cyclist is ever so fed up.
It has been a week since his crash. It is still three days until the cyclist gets his operation to have his collarbone plated. Three more days until he can begin the process of recovering. This is wasted time, these are endless days, and he's not getting any better. The frustration that nothing is happening, the sense of limbo is palpable.
His left shoulder has dropped dramatically compared to his right, thanks in part to the defensive way he is carrying himself. The bruising has spread its yellows and greens and greys in a swirl from his neck to his hip. The initial swelling has subsided, but there are still strange lumps and bumps in unexpected areas. The unsightly lump of the broken collarbone itself is visible under the skin halfway along the shoulder. He is wearing a sling to take the weight of his arm from the shoulder, stretching all his t-shirts as he wears them over the set up.
He is very listless, not really knowing what to do with himself. The painkillers he's been given aren't helping - although they are more than taking the edge off the pain itself, they are not improving his mood. He is getting a little cabin fever now, bored at home but not really keen to go out, mainly in case someone knocks into him. He cannot drive at the moment, so he's being ferried about by me which is not ideal either, as I am not the greatest driver in the world and I tend to stress him out. Especially at roundabouts.
He is at least sleeping ok. Bolstered by my V-shaped pillow (which I have to say he ridiculed when I bought it), and with the aid of the last dose of the day, he can at least get comfortable enough to drop off. He suffers in the morning though, as everything seizes up gradually in the night. Now his fractured ribs are giving him real problems. These are I suppose starting to knit themselves back together, but the process is not going unnoticed.
So then, the positives. Because there are positives. First and foremost, this hasn't put him off riding or racing his bike in the slightest, and I was worried it might. He is spending his time in a fogged-up painkiller haze researching replacement and upgrade items on t'internet. There are lists.
As mentioned before, we got off extremely lightly as regards damage to the bike. The front wheel is totally fucked (that's the official technical term), and will have to be replaced, and he wrote off his helmet (no cyclist damage, he didn't even realise he'd hit his head), but he wanted a new one anyway. There will be some new kit to buy, but the bits I cut off had served their time and were realistically due for replacement. All in all, this could have been so so much worse.
The kids are being very good about the whole thing, not climbing on daddy as is their usual favourite pastime, and seem to understand which areas of him to avoid and why. And our new kitten, Miguel, is definitely aiding the healing process.
Sunday, 24 June 2012
Wednesday, 20 June 2012
Oops, he did it again...
In which our heroine gets to cut off a pair of bib shorts and sneaks a couple of prescription painkillers for her trouble...
I have now experienced first hand the thrill of Bolton Royal A+E on a Sunday afternoon. Another Sunday, another race, another phone call.
It started off pretty innocuously. A Sunday afternoon crit in Horwich. The weather was better than it had been in a while, and the cyclist was pleased as he'd got an entry on the line. I stayed at home with the kids. The race starts at 3pm. At 3.15 I get a message to call a mobile. There's only ever one possible explanation for that, and so I am told which hospital they're taking my husband to.
Sigh.
He's done it properly this time, decked it at 50kph. I'm told it's not serious, but he's probably broken his collarbone. I ask if he's still swearing, reasoning that if he is it can't be too bad. I can speak to him, he tell's me where he's going. I make a quick call to my sister-in-law and load the kids into the car to drop off with her. 20 minutes later I'm at the reception desk at Accident and Emergency, apologising to two of the receptionists for the fact that the roads in Horwich have been closed since 10am for the bike races. Because obviously both me and my injured husband are somehow responsible.
Morphine, an X-ray, a sickbowl. His race number is still pinned to his jersey, and asks me to take his shoes off. He is yellow and the skin of his arms is cold, but slick with sweat. He looks worse than I am expecting. He has fractured his collarbone, taken the skin off his shoulder and knee, damaged his ribs and scraped his knuckles. Bruising and swelling and small marks on him in strange places. His wedding ring has a chip out, I tell him this entitles him to a 5 year discount. We wait around a bit, he is eventually given some hefty painkillers and a sling and we are sent home.
The sad little lycra graveyard at the bottom of the garden has grown. There was no getting round it, the kit he was in had to be removed scissorally. Racing jersey, base layer (not technical enough to get him round this corner, evidently) and bib shorts all had to be cut carefully from the damaged shoulder. The cyclist understandably winces somewhat when I'm cutting hundreds of pounds worth of lycra from his battered body, with blades uncomfortably close to his throat. For those who might be concerned, the socks made it to fight another day...
And the bike. The day after the crash I go to pick it up from the friend who took it home for us that day. Yet again, we've got lucky. The front wheel is completely written off, and there are marks where someone has clearly ridden across the cross tube and seat tube, but she is fine. The bar tape isn't even scuffed - she's made of sturdy stuff is Carly.
So finally, after all this time, he's a proper cyclist. All the races and training in his previous life, as a juvenile and then junior, representing Great Britain at home and abroad, seasons raced in France and Belgium, he never broke his collarbone. We get to talking about the injuries he has suffered in the name of the bike.
Like the training ride when he was 18 and his training partner rode into the back of him, skewering his leg with the quick release lever from his front wheel. This happened on the afternoon of a football derby, so the cyclist was awarded two ambulances, a police car and an attendant helicopter for his troubles, as they were at a bit of a loose end until the pubs kicked out. 6 stitches and an ugly scar to the back of the knee.
Or the Junior Tour of Ireland where he was riding for the four man GB team. Thanks to rolling in to someone else's crash he raced stage 2 with someone else's chainring in the front of his shin. He finished the stage, only to get into the ambulance for stitching up along with 2 other members of the team, who were both there being mopped up for completely unrelated incidents (they still won).
His first ever proper road race, when he moved from the Juvenile to the Junior ranks, crashed on the first lap and got more and more bloodied with every lap. Determined to finish, he refused to climb off and came in so far down on the rest of the field the attending St John's Ambulance crew had given up and gone home by the time he crossed the line for the final time.
And the 'infamous' crash in San Marino, Junior World Champs Road Race, 1995. Doored by a mechanic in a neutral service vehicle as he chased to get back on having had his front wheel taken out in an earlier crash. And the rest is history. Or not.
I have now experienced first hand the thrill of Bolton Royal A+E on a Sunday afternoon. Another Sunday, another race, another phone call.
It started off pretty innocuously. A Sunday afternoon crit in Horwich. The weather was better than it had been in a while, and the cyclist was pleased as he'd got an entry on the line. I stayed at home with the kids. The race starts at 3pm. At 3.15 I get a message to call a mobile. There's only ever one possible explanation for that, and so I am told which hospital they're taking my husband to.
Sigh.
He's done it properly this time, decked it at 50kph. I'm told it's not serious, but he's probably broken his collarbone. I ask if he's still swearing, reasoning that if he is it can't be too bad. I can speak to him, he tell's me where he's going. I make a quick call to my sister-in-law and load the kids into the car to drop off with her. 20 minutes later I'm at the reception desk at Accident and Emergency, apologising to two of the receptionists for the fact that the roads in Horwich have been closed since 10am for the bike races. Because obviously both me and my injured husband are somehow responsible.
The irony is that when the race started he had stayed on the front the first few laps, eager to avoid any trouble, noticing the poor surface on the racing line of the corner that would bring him down. The spot that later in the race a Marshall would refer to as 'Death Corner'. Dropping back through the field on the fifth or sixth lap he caught the corner wrong, probably suffered an impact puncture to the front wheel, and came down bringing another with him, who thankfully was able to get back up and carry on racing.
Morphine, an X-ray, a sickbowl. His race number is still pinned to his jersey, and asks me to take his shoes off. He is yellow and the skin of his arms is cold, but slick with sweat. He looks worse than I am expecting. He has fractured his collarbone, taken the skin off his shoulder and knee, damaged his ribs and scraped his knuckles. Bruising and swelling and small marks on him in strange places. His wedding ring has a chip out, I tell him this entitles him to a 5 year discount. We wait around a bit, he is eventually given some hefty painkillers and a sling and we are sent home.
The sad little lycra graveyard at the bottom of the garden has grown. There was no getting round it, the kit he was in had to be removed scissorally. Racing jersey, base layer (not technical enough to get him round this corner, evidently) and bib shorts all had to be cut carefully from the damaged shoulder. The cyclist understandably winces somewhat when I'm cutting hundreds of pounds worth of lycra from his battered body, with blades uncomfortably close to his throat. For those who might be concerned, the socks made it to fight another day...
And the bike. The day after the crash I go to pick it up from the friend who took it home for us that day. Yet again, we've got lucky. The front wheel is completely written off, and there are marks where someone has clearly ridden across the cross tube and seat tube, but she is fine. The bar tape isn't even scuffed - she's made of sturdy stuff is Carly.
-------------------------------------------------------------
So finally, after all this time, he's a proper cyclist. All the races and training in his previous life, as a juvenile and then junior, representing Great Britain at home and abroad, seasons raced in France and Belgium, he never broke his collarbone. We get to talking about the injuries he has suffered in the name of the bike.
Like the training ride when he was 18 and his training partner rode into the back of him, skewering his leg with the quick release lever from his front wheel. This happened on the afternoon of a football derby, so the cyclist was awarded two ambulances, a police car and an attendant helicopter for his troubles, as they were at a bit of a loose end until the pubs kicked out. 6 stitches and an ugly scar to the back of the knee.
Or the Junior Tour of Ireland where he was riding for the four man GB team. Thanks to rolling in to someone else's crash he raced stage 2 with someone else's chainring in the front of his shin. He finished the stage, only to get into the ambulance for stitching up along with 2 other members of the team, who were both there being mopped up for completely unrelated incidents (they still won).
His first ever proper road race, when he moved from the Juvenile to the Junior ranks, crashed on the first lap and got more and more bloodied with every lap. Determined to finish, he refused to climb off and came in so far down on the rest of the field the attending St John's Ambulance crew had given up and gone home by the time he crossed the line for the final time.
And the 'infamous' crash in San Marino, Junior World Champs Road Race, 1995. Doored by a mechanic in a neutral service vehicle as he chased to get back on having had his front wheel taken out in an earlier crash. And the rest is history. Or not.
-------------------------------------------------------------
UPDATE:
We took a trip to the fracture clinic today. The cyclist needs an operation to plate his collarbone (X-ay above). He has also fractured 2 of his ribs. The goals he had for the season have had to be shelved, and in a lot of ways that's proving the bitterest pill to swallow.
Friday, 15 June 2012
Go hard, then go home.
In which our cyclist asks 'Just how hard is it to make a protein shake properly?'
It's just powder and water, innit? So why on earth can I not get one in the other in such a way as to make a tasty and smooth post ride recovery drink experience? I just can't get it right; they either have a consistency approaching Campbells Condensed Soup (apart from the chewy bits - in the shake that is), or pond water.
The key instruction is to James Bond it- a protein shake must be shaken, not stirred. In desperation at my ongoing failure to satisfactorily make up a protein shake - I hate being rubbish at stuff, particularly stuff where the instructions are as simple as 'Add Water. Drink' - I made one in a pint glass once and tried to stir the powder in, carefully, a bit at a time, like a reverse risotto (which is not entirely texturally dissimilar to how the fucker ended up). A fascinating and completely impenetrable rubbery layer formed on the top, capable of supporting a stack of 17 2p coins (further experimentation curtailed by funding cuts), and the whole thing smelled a bit like raw chicken; it was chocolate flavour. Down the sink it (eventually) went, after a moderate amount of stabbing with a bamboo skewer.
So now, if the cyclist wants a protein shake he generally makes his own. Quickly, and quietly, with no fuss and remarkably little swearing, because apparently that is possible.
A protein shake is just one part of the post ride schedule - because the ride is not quite over even when you've got off the bike. There are still things to be done, and an order in which to do them as suits the individual needs of the cyclist. After a ride or a race a cyclist will need food, fluid and a wash. And some more food. On top of that they might need a lie down, a cuddle and a cry. And some more food. And they will possibly need a massage, an icepack and a priest. And some more food.
Back when he first got back on his bike, I would get a phone call from the cyclist when he was approximately t-10mins from home. This would be my cue to get a bath running, make a sandwich and boil the kettle. When he got back to the house he would collapse on to one of the garden chairs for as long as it took to eat his sandwich, drink his tea and get his breath back and his heart rate down, before heading into the house, swerving the kids and falling into the bath. I would check he hadn't drowned, bring him another cup of tea, maybe something else to eat, and about 40 minutes after him coming home I would possibly be able to ask him how his ride had been and get an answer in full sentences.
This state of affairs didn't last long, as his fitness dramatically improved in a very short space of time. His post-ride ritual still remains pretty much the same (tea, food, bath, preferably all at the same time), but the atmosphere has lightened somewhat, probably because the sense that the cyclist could very well drop dead if the cup of tea and sandwich were not placed in his shaking hand within 30 seconds of him dismounting the bike has diminished rather.
The cyclist much prefers a post ride bath to a shower, being of the firm belief that if you're able to stand up in the shower after a ride you didn't go hard enough. It must be hot (a temperature somewhere between scalding and McDonalds coffee) and there must be a good supply of bubbles. If you are freezing, filthy and soaked, sleet, hail and small animals have collected in your regulation cyclist stubble, your extremities have gone purple and all you can do is mutter '... the headwind... the terrible headwind... there... and back...' over and over, it is perfectly acceptable to stagger to the bathroom fall in to the bath in your full kit and turn the tap on. You might want to take your helmet off, but if you can't don't worry; it probably works as a floatation device until you get enough feeling back in your neck to lift your own head anyway.
Food and drink requirements are down to the particular tastes of the cyclist. My cyclist, not being of the sweet-toothed variety favours a sandwich, cheese on toast, pasta etc. Toasted tea cakes are also a winner. Post ride, quantity is very much favoured over quality (which is just as well given my aforementioned woeful culinary abilities and lack of concentr... Ooooh! A shiny thing!), and the cyclist will pack away pretty much anything put in front of him with no thought for calories, or carbs or fat grams, because, well, he might die.
At some point in all this, the cyclist will have to peel off the lycra. I've only ever had to do it for him once, after his crash. I've been told that this is never a pleasant process. The worst bit is plunging the arm into the cold and sodden garments to turn them the right way pre-wash.
A domestique capable of giving a good massage is worth her weight in gold and jewels (and should be rewarded thusly). The cyclist would love me to be good at giving massages. I'm a bit odd and not a huge fan of massages myself. I suspect I should put it down to what would have to be termed 'Personal Space Issues' (which I never even realised I had until my best friend drunkenly intervened on a night out when a mutual acquaintance tried to hug me, 'Gerroff, she doeshn't like people touching her!' Gawd bless you, Saz.), but I'll be honest, I have never found it particularly relaxing to be stripped, oiled and rubbed, especially by a stranger (I'm sure loads of people would disagree with me here, but we all have our little peccadilloes). I do understand that 'Sports Massages' serve a very particular purpose and are absolutely brilliant when your cyclist feels like he has been hit by a truck and dragged along the A57 for a mile and a half. I have had a go, but I don't think it was a roaring success - I've not been asked recently.
I am lucky, in that my cyclist finds his post-ride ritual of food-drink-bath massively restorative. He can return from a ride half-dead, but having drunk a bucket of tea, eaten everything not nailed down, soaked the road off and sorted the protein shake he's pretty much back in the game. Which is great as far as I'm concerned, because for me a post-ride recovery lie down can be somewhat of a contentious issue. You see, cyclists, if you've been out riding for 6 hours, and have been eating and in the bath (or just eating in the bath as the case may be) for another hour on top of that, you'll have clocked up 7 hours at this point. In our house that's 7 hours that the domestique has been DS'ing the squabbling junior members of the team, and by now it's probably all gone a little bit Lord of the Flies and requires daddy's firm hand and at least one pair of clean trousers.
Under these circumstances, if you feel you really need a lie down, take 30mins or so, but if you can possibly face it, you need to get some trousers on, get downstairs and make your presence felt. Your domestique will appreciate it. Sprawling on the sofa with your legs up and whatever cycling Eurosport is showing or has been patiently awaiting it's turn on the sky+ on the telly is perfectly acceptable, as long as you can now be relied upon to step in and perform a little domestique duty of your own.
It's just powder and water, innit? So why on earth can I not get one in the other in such a way as to make a tasty and smooth post ride recovery drink experience? I just can't get it right; they either have a consistency approaching Campbells Condensed Soup (apart from the chewy bits - in the shake that is), or pond water.
The key instruction is to James Bond it- a protein shake must be shaken, not stirred. In desperation at my ongoing failure to satisfactorily make up a protein shake - I hate being rubbish at stuff, particularly stuff where the instructions are as simple as 'Add Water. Drink' - I made one in a pint glass once and tried to stir the powder in, carefully, a bit at a time, like a reverse risotto (which is not entirely texturally dissimilar to how the fucker ended up). A fascinating and completely impenetrable rubbery layer formed on the top, capable of supporting a stack of 17 2p coins (further experimentation curtailed by funding cuts), and the whole thing smelled a bit like raw chicken; it was chocolate flavour. Down the sink it (eventually) went, after a moderate amount of stabbing with a bamboo skewer.
So now, if the cyclist wants a protein shake he generally makes his own. Quickly, and quietly, with no fuss and remarkably little swearing, because apparently that is possible.
---------------------------------------------------------------
A protein shake is just one part of the post ride schedule - because the ride is not quite over even when you've got off the bike. There are still things to be done, and an order in which to do them as suits the individual needs of the cyclist. After a ride or a race a cyclist will need food, fluid and a wash. And some more food. On top of that they might need a lie down, a cuddle and a cry. And some more food. And they will possibly need a massage, an icepack and a priest. And some more food.
Back when he first got back on his bike, I would get a phone call from the cyclist when he was approximately t-10mins from home. This would be my cue to get a bath running, make a sandwich and boil the kettle. When he got back to the house he would collapse on to one of the garden chairs for as long as it took to eat his sandwich, drink his tea and get his breath back and his heart rate down, before heading into the house, swerving the kids and falling into the bath. I would check he hadn't drowned, bring him another cup of tea, maybe something else to eat, and about 40 minutes after him coming home I would possibly be able to ask him how his ride had been and get an answer in full sentences.
This state of affairs didn't last long, as his fitness dramatically improved in a very short space of time. His post-ride ritual still remains pretty much the same (tea, food, bath, preferably all at the same time), but the atmosphere has lightened somewhat, probably because the sense that the cyclist could very well drop dead if the cup of tea and sandwich were not placed in his shaking hand within 30 seconds of him dismounting the bike has diminished rather.
The cyclist much prefers a post ride bath to a shower, being of the firm belief that if you're able to stand up in the shower after a ride you didn't go hard enough. It must be hot (a temperature somewhere between scalding and McDonalds coffee) and there must be a good supply of bubbles. If you are freezing, filthy and soaked, sleet, hail and small animals have collected in your regulation cyclist stubble, your extremities have gone purple and all you can do is mutter '... the headwind... the terrible headwind... there... and back...' over and over, it is perfectly acceptable to stagger to the bathroom fall in to the bath in your full kit and turn the tap on. You might want to take your helmet off, but if you can't don't worry; it probably works as a floatation device until you get enough feeling back in your neck to lift your own head anyway.
Food and drink requirements are down to the particular tastes of the cyclist. My cyclist, not being of the sweet-toothed variety favours a sandwich, cheese on toast, pasta etc. Toasted tea cakes are also a winner. Post ride, quantity is very much favoured over quality (which is just as well given my aforementioned woeful culinary abilities and lack of concentr... Ooooh! A shiny thing!), and the cyclist will pack away pretty much anything put in front of him with no thought for calories, or carbs or fat grams, because, well, he might die.
At some point in all this, the cyclist will have to peel off the lycra. I've only ever had to do it for him once, after his crash. I've been told that this is never a pleasant process. The worst bit is plunging the arm into the cold and sodden garments to turn them the right way pre-wash.
A domestique capable of giving a good massage is worth her weight in gold and jewels (and should be rewarded thusly). The cyclist would love me to be good at giving massages. I'm a bit odd and not a huge fan of massages myself. I suspect I should put it down to what would have to be termed 'Personal Space Issues' (which I never even realised I had until my best friend drunkenly intervened on a night out when a mutual acquaintance tried to hug me, 'Gerroff, she doeshn't like people touching her!' Gawd bless you, Saz.), but I'll be honest, I have never found it particularly relaxing to be stripped, oiled and rubbed, especially by a stranger (I'm sure loads of people would disagree with me here, but we all have our little peccadilloes). I do understand that 'Sports Massages' serve a very particular purpose and are absolutely brilliant when your cyclist feels like he has been hit by a truck and dragged along the A57 for a mile and a half. I have had a go, but I don't think it was a roaring success - I've not been asked recently.
I am lucky, in that my cyclist finds his post-ride ritual of food-drink-bath massively restorative. He can return from a ride half-dead, but having drunk a bucket of tea, eaten everything not nailed down, soaked the road off and sorted the protein shake he's pretty much back in the game. Which is great as far as I'm concerned, because for me a post-ride recovery lie down can be somewhat of a contentious issue. You see, cyclists, if you've been out riding for 6 hours, and have been eating and in the bath (or just eating in the bath as the case may be) for another hour on top of that, you'll have clocked up 7 hours at this point. In our house that's 7 hours that the domestique has been DS'ing the squabbling junior members of the team, and by now it's probably all gone a little bit Lord of the Flies and requires daddy's firm hand and at least one pair of clean trousers.
Under these circumstances, if you feel you really need a lie down, take 30mins or so, but if you can possibly face it, you need to get some trousers on, get downstairs and make your presence felt. Your domestique will appreciate it. Sprawling on the sofa with your legs up and whatever cycling Eurosport is showing or has been patiently awaiting it's turn on the sky+ on the telly is perfectly acceptable, as long as you can now be relied upon to step in and perform a little domestique duty of your own.
Saturday, 9 June 2012
Any given Thursday night.
A race in the rain finds our heroine in a contemplative mood...
We are in a car park. The car park belongs to UCLAN, this is their sports facility. It is a Thursday in early June. It is bouncing down.
We are early. We have come straight from the office; freed from the responsibility of the children who have been packed off to their grandparents for part of the school holiday, I can play supportive wife.
We left the house at seven this morning, the cyclist packing his kit while getting his work head on. He checks his bag. He has forgotten his overshoes, and his race license. We go to the sign on, both of us hoping the missing license won't have caused us a wasted journey. The cyclist knows his numbers, and the man recognises him - he races here almost every week. There is no problem. He signs on, we go back to the car.
The car park is pretty full. The assorted cars have steamed up windows and are gently rocking as those inside undergo the metamorphosis from Nine-to-Fiver to cyclist. It looks like a doggers paradise. The cyclist is getting changed beside me. 'Careful', I say as he puts on his shorts. 'There's kids over there, you'll end up on a list'. He laughs. It is my favourite thing in the world to make him laugh.
There are kids everywhere; children on the track, juniors on rollers in the rain. Some of them are tiny, barely bigger than our own small daughter. Some of them are 'faces', strutting round with teenage self-importance, deflating only slightly when someone's mum asks if they want a hot chocolate. There is a family atmosphere. This is a good thing. In better weather the kids and families hang around longer, watching the full compliment of races, eating hot crepes with nutella and marshmallows. In the summer holidays I will hope for warmth and sunshine so as to bring our kids here to stay up long past bedtime in the fading evening sun.
The field for the cyclist's race is reduced by the rain, and some of the riders who might otherwise have been here are racing the Tour Series in Colchester. The commissaires are joking about the length of the race, it will be curtailed due to the weather. The riders spin out for a couple of warm-up laps, the rain looks like it may be stopping. They come back to the line, ready to start proper - the rain has rallied and is coming down harder. I go to the cyclist, to take his rain cape. I go back to the place where I was stood, near the start/finish line with my umbrella, desperately looking for someone to talk to.
The race gets underway. They go hard; it's cold and wet and no rider wants this to go on any longer than it has to. Within a few laps the E/1/2's have shaken the 3/4's. There is a rider off the front, about a third of a lap off the main bunch. A commissaire is talking to a man near me; they do not know who the rider is. I butt in to their conversation to identify him. They assume I am the rider in question's girlfriend. I say something stupid, as is my wont.
The riders concertina in and out, the bunch stretching and contracting as the laps stack up. Attacks form and are countered. And the rain comes down. A few laps to go, and the bunch is split in two as a rider escapes off the front. He stays away, gaining time on each subsequent lap. There are six behind him, and the rest a few seconds behind. Small groups of 3/4's are scattered over the track, blue numbers marking them out. Some have smartly attached to one or other of the groups of E/1/2 riders as they are lapped. There is a small boy climbing on a bench; he cheers his daddy on every pass. The only support that could possibly matter on a Thursday, in the rain.
The penultimate lap. The rider off the front has gained so much time from the group that I fear there has been a crash behind him, out of view, as it takes so long for the bunch to come into sight. The two groups have come back together in that final lap, picking up some more of the 3/4's on their way. They sprint for the line, spray flying. I see the cyclist cross the line. I try to count, but am unsure of his position. My second job of the evening (the first being holding his rain jacket), and I have utterly failed.
They come back round to the gate, having taken a lap past the line to wind down from the sprint. They are soaked and filthy, epically dirty. I am warned not to kiss the cyclist, but I do anyway. He looks to me like he has ridden a sodden spring classic, his nose and ears are full of black crap; it is caked onto his cheeks and eyebrows. The white sleeves of his jersey are grey, stark contrast to the back which has been protected from the grime.
We rush back over to the car. The cyclist has forgotten a towel on the one day he really needs one. He has his spray, and uses the spare jersey in his bag to clean himself off as best he can. I take the numbers off his jersey, take them back to the small room that serves as HQ while he changes again, this time from cyclist to husband.
We are done.
'What's for tea?'
We are in a car park. The car park belongs to UCLAN, this is their sports facility. It is a Thursday in early June. It is bouncing down.
We are early. We have come straight from the office; freed from the responsibility of the children who have been packed off to their grandparents for part of the school holiday, I can play supportive wife.
We left the house at seven this morning, the cyclist packing his kit while getting his work head on. He checks his bag. He has forgotten his overshoes, and his race license. We go to the sign on, both of us hoping the missing license won't have caused us a wasted journey. The cyclist knows his numbers, and the man recognises him - he races here almost every week. There is no problem. He signs on, we go back to the car.
The car park is pretty full. The assorted cars have steamed up windows and are gently rocking as those inside undergo the metamorphosis from Nine-to-Fiver to cyclist. It looks like a doggers paradise. The cyclist is getting changed beside me. 'Careful', I say as he puts on his shorts. 'There's kids over there, you'll end up on a list'. He laughs. It is my favourite thing in the world to make him laugh.
There are kids everywhere; children on the track, juniors on rollers in the rain. Some of them are tiny, barely bigger than our own small daughter. Some of them are 'faces', strutting round with teenage self-importance, deflating only slightly when someone's mum asks if they want a hot chocolate. There is a family atmosphere. This is a good thing. In better weather the kids and families hang around longer, watching the full compliment of races, eating hot crepes with nutella and marshmallows. In the summer holidays I will hope for warmth and sunshine so as to bring our kids here to stay up long past bedtime in the fading evening sun.
The field for the cyclist's race is reduced by the rain, and some of the riders who might otherwise have been here are racing the Tour Series in Colchester. The commissaires are joking about the length of the race, it will be curtailed due to the weather. The riders spin out for a couple of warm-up laps, the rain looks like it may be stopping. They come back to the line, ready to start proper - the rain has rallied and is coming down harder. I go to the cyclist, to take his rain cape. I go back to the place where I was stood, near the start/finish line with my umbrella, desperately looking for someone to talk to.
The race gets underway. They go hard; it's cold and wet and no rider wants this to go on any longer than it has to. Within a few laps the E/1/2's have shaken the 3/4's. There is a rider off the front, about a third of a lap off the main bunch. A commissaire is talking to a man near me; they do not know who the rider is. I butt in to their conversation to identify him. They assume I am the rider in question's girlfriend. I say something stupid, as is my wont.
The riders concertina in and out, the bunch stretching and contracting as the laps stack up. Attacks form and are countered. And the rain comes down. A few laps to go, and the bunch is split in two as a rider escapes off the front. He stays away, gaining time on each subsequent lap. There are six behind him, and the rest a few seconds behind. Small groups of 3/4's are scattered over the track, blue numbers marking them out. Some have smartly attached to one or other of the groups of E/1/2 riders as they are lapped. There is a small boy climbing on a bench; he cheers his daddy on every pass. The only support that could possibly matter on a Thursday, in the rain.
The penultimate lap. The rider off the front has gained so much time from the group that I fear there has been a crash behind him, out of view, as it takes so long for the bunch to come into sight. The two groups have come back together in that final lap, picking up some more of the 3/4's on their way. They sprint for the line, spray flying. I see the cyclist cross the line. I try to count, but am unsure of his position. My second job of the evening (the first being holding his rain jacket), and I have utterly failed.
They come back round to the gate, having taken a lap past the line to wind down from the sprint. They are soaked and filthy, epically dirty. I am warned not to kiss the cyclist, but I do anyway. He looks to me like he has ridden a sodden spring classic, his nose and ears are full of black crap; it is caked onto his cheeks and eyebrows. The white sleeves of his jersey are grey, stark contrast to the back which has been protected from the grime.
We rush back over to the car. The cyclist has forgotten a towel on the one day he really needs one. He has his spray, and uses the spare jersey in his bag to clean himself off as best he can. I take the numbers off his jersey, take them back to the small room that serves as HQ while he changes again, this time from cyclist to husband.
We are done.
'What's for tea?'
Friday, 8 June 2012
What's for tea?
The bizzle in the kizzle fo shizzle.
One of my many great failings as a wife, a mother and a human being is a distinct lack of enthusiasm in the kitchen. I would love to be one of those people who thrives on food preparation and creation; can while away a happy afternoon baking amazing goodies for the family and knows of other things to do with amusingly shaped vegetables than adding features with a sharpie and posting pictures on the internet. But I'm sadly not.
I am not a terrible cook. There are a number of examples that counter this claim - the famous episode with the Leek and Potato soup ('How the fuck did you get it that colour? NO! I'm just not eating that!') and the Chocolate Mousse that could've been used to waterproof roads and has been attributed the full blame of the cyclist's 4am dash to A+E and subsequent appendectomy (God it was YEARS ago, you can barely even see the scar) aside, there are far worse cooks than me out in the general public. Rather than straightforward cack-handness, my issues are more lack of desire and a tendency to get bored and wander off. I just can't be arsed.
Which is becoming a bit of a problem. The cyclist needs feeding pretty much constantly, and the children aren't too far behind. But thanks in large to the cyclists renewed interest and participation in the sport, an increased interest in and understanding of nutrition and food in general has swept the household. This is no bad thing, because apparently Hula Hoops aren't one of your 5-a-day. And, for the first time I have been introduced to the dark and mysterious world of Sports Nutrition.
The cyclist has always been able to pack it away; food I mean. This is a man who once ate himself to a near-death experience in a restaurant in Dallas, pushed close to the edge by 'Mama's Apple Pie and Ice Cream' ('No, seriously, stop laughing and let me go towards the light'. He is sweating and close to tears. I am far far too far gone on frozen margaritas to do anything except laugh so hard I fall over). But recently, the conversation in our house is 10% work, 10% kids and 80% food. It's all he ever thinks about. His car is an automatic, basically so he has a hand free for eating. He has developed a complex relationship with carbs - We are loading! We are avoiding! - and we are dipping our toes in the dark waters of Low-GI. I have experimented with various origami-based methods of wrapping sandwiches in foil so he can best unwrap them with his teeth mid-ride (Burrito-style - fold at the bottom, twist at the top).
Several nutritional wonderfoods have been attempted in the name of 'Marginal Gains'. There was beetroot juice. That lasted about 2 days. Completely disgusting, and caused a little whimper with the cyclist's morning wee. Luckily, he remembered the unique side effects of beetroot juice before calling the ambulance, and the relief was palpable. Result:- large quantity ('No, we'll get this ENORMOUS bottle, I'm sure it's delicious') of beetroot juice down sink. And coconut oil. 'We'll cook everything in coconut oil, it's much better for you. Men's Health says so'. Everything tastes like it's been fried in Hawaiian tropic and it made the kids cry. Result:- large quantity (No, we'll get this ENORMOUS bottle, I'm sure it's delicious') sat in the cupboard next to the Cayenne Pepper (It speeds up your metabolism. Well, it would do if I put it in anything).
And our kitchen has a little section added, near the xmas Baileys and the stickily dusty bottle of Drambuie with half an inch in the bottom; bearing such beguiling promises as 'Isotonic!' and 'Electrolytes!' and 'Real Fruit Flavor!' are several tubs of powers and sachets of gels. There are Pre-Exercise, During Exercise and Post Exercise varieties. There's even a special night-time recovery one you can get should you so require. One of the great mysteries of the universe centres on gels; despite the vast range of flavours apparently available, it is only ever possible to buy 'Tropical' gels in the shops. The cyclist has dismissed 'Tropical' as being fit only for Triathletes. Not having a sweet tooth he would love to find a manufacturer that made savoury gels. Cheese and Onion, anyone?
A few weeks ago, the cyclist found himself behind Chris Boardman in the queue at a service station Starbucks. On our next coffee shop stop, the cyclist eventually came back to the table I was guarding with my Vanilla Latte and Caramel Slice, his Flat White and Croissant, and a tub of lukewarm soy porridge and a small tub of sarcastically priced dried fruit.
(Also the cyclist said Chris Boardman had a Skinny Vanilla Latte - Coffee of Champions and Athletes).
One of my many great failings as a wife, a mother and a human being is a distinct lack of enthusiasm in the kitchen. I would love to be one of those people who thrives on food preparation and creation; can while away a happy afternoon baking amazing goodies for the family and knows of other things to do with amusingly shaped vegetables than adding features with a sharpie and posting pictures on the internet. But I'm sadly not.
I am not a terrible cook. There are a number of examples that counter this claim - the famous episode with the Leek and Potato soup ('How the fuck did you get it that colour? NO! I'm just not eating that!') and the Chocolate Mousse that could've been used to waterproof roads and has been attributed the full blame of the cyclist's 4am dash to A+E and subsequent appendectomy (God it was YEARS ago, you can barely even see the scar) aside, there are far worse cooks than me out in the general public. Rather than straightforward cack-handness, my issues are more lack of desire and a tendency to get bored and wander off. I just can't be arsed.
Which is becoming a bit of a problem. The cyclist needs feeding pretty much constantly, and the children aren't too far behind. But thanks in large to the cyclists renewed interest and participation in the sport, an increased interest in and understanding of nutrition and food in general has swept the household. This is no bad thing, because apparently Hula Hoops aren't one of your 5-a-day. And, for the first time I have been introduced to the dark and mysterious world of Sports Nutrition.
The cyclist has always been able to pack it away; food I mean. This is a man who once ate himself to a near-death experience in a restaurant in Dallas, pushed close to the edge by 'Mama's Apple Pie and Ice Cream' ('No, seriously, stop laughing and let me go towards the light'. He is sweating and close to tears. I am far far too far gone on frozen margaritas to do anything except laugh so hard I fall over). But recently, the conversation in our house is 10% work, 10% kids and 80% food. It's all he ever thinks about. His car is an automatic, basically so he has a hand free for eating. He has developed a complex relationship with carbs - We are loading! We are avoiding! - and we are dipping our toes in the dark waters of Low-GI. I have experimented with various origami-based methods of wrapping sandwiches in foil so he can best unwrap them with his teeth mid-ride (Burrito-style - fold at the bottom, twist at the top).
Several nutritional wonderfoods have been attempted in the name of 'Marginal Gains'. There was beetroot juice. That lasted about 2 days. Completely disgusting, and caused a little whimper with the cyclist's morning wee. Luckily, he remembered the unique side effects of beetroot juice before calling the ambulance, and the relief was palpable. Result:- large quantity ('No, we'll get this ENORMOUS bottle, I'm sure it's delicious') of beetroot juice down sink. And coconut oil. 'We'll cook everything in coconut oil, it's much better for you. Men's Health says so'. Everything tastes like it's been fried in Hawaiian tropic and it made the kids cry. Result:- large quantity (No, we'll get this ENORMOUS bottle, I'm sure it's delicious') sat in the cupboard next to the Cayenne Pepper (It speeds up your metabolism. Well, it would do if I put it in anything).
And our kitchen has a little section added, near the xmas Baileys and the stickily dusty bottle of Drambuie with half an inch in the bottom; bearing such beguiling promises as 'Isotonic!' and 'Electrolytes!' and 'Real Fruit Flavor!' are several tubs of powers and sachets of gels. There are Pre-Exercise, During Exercise and Post Exercise varieties. There's even a special night-time recovery one you can get should you so require. One of the great mysteries of the universe centres on gels; despite the vast range of flavours apparently available, it is only ever possible to buy 'Tropical' gels in the shops. The cyclist has dismissed 'Tropical' as being fit only for Triathletes. Not having a sweet tooth he would love to find a manufacturer that made savoury gels. Cheese and Onion, anyone?
--------------------------------------------------------------
A few weeks ago, the cyclist found himself behind Chris Boardman in the queue at a service station Starbucks. On our next coffee shop stop, the cyclist eventually came back to the table I was guarding with my Vanilla Latte and Caramel Slice, his Flat White and Croissant, and a tub of lukewarm soy porridge and a small tub of sarcastically priced dried fruit.
'This is what Chris Boardman ordered when I was behind him in the queue the other day!'
Raised eyebrow. 'And the croissant?'
He has the decency to laugh. 'Baby steps.'
Wednesday, 30 May 2012
If you can't beat them, join them?
In which our heroine starts to consider a bike to call her very own...
Now then, to bike or not to bike; what does this decision ultimately boil down to? I've made a handy list of the pros and cons currently occupying my mind -
2) Cake.
My research has scientifically proven that cyclists are obsessed with cake. And I like a slice* of Victoria sponge or caramel shortbread as much as the next person. Having seen my cyclist's Garmin uploads I would have to concur that cycling does seem to rather efficiently burn those cheeky little calories that are starting to gang up on me, and even leave a bit of space for some additional ones to be thrown into the mix pretty much guilt-free.
*4 slices. And a cup of tea. And a tube of Smarties to wash it down.
3) Nice People.
All the cycling people I have met have been nice. Without exception. I'm sure there's some knobbers out there, but I've yet to encounter them personally. And one of the main things they all have in common is that they want you to give cycling a try, and they want you to enjoy it too, especially if you're a girl.
4) Loving it.
People are always going on about riding their bikes. Rides they've been on, rides they're going on, weather and scenery and cakes and friends and foam rollers (?). It all sounds pretty, well, FUN.
Again, this has been a long time coming. I've always been easily led, so I suppose it was inevitable that I would eventually start to think about whether I too should consider joining the dark side and getting my bottom on a bike.
The cyclist is being very encouraging, despite this being 'his thing'; I'm pretty sure he doesn't need to worry about me gatecrashing his position as the racer in the family - and I suspect his motives are largely driven by the fact that he wants to get involved in the bike selection process.
The cyclist is being very encouraging, despite this being 'his thing'; I'm pretty sure he doesn't need to worry about me gatecrashing his position as the racer in the family - and I suspect his motives are largely driven by the fact that he wants to get involved in the bike selection process.
But if I were to take the plunge, it would not mean that for us cycling would become a couple-y pursuit. Please forget any romantic notions you might have of those 'advert style' rides, where laughing couples in casually stylish and coordinated outfits cycle down a leafy lane simpering at each other without a care in the world. Instead, cast your memory back to the dark place of that terrible Sunday. You know the one; shortly after your 17th birthday, clutching your Provisional Driving License in your sweaty little hand and heading to the supermarket carpark with your silent and grey faced Dad in his Cavalier. Remember the grinding of gears? The yelling? The silence? The hot hot tears of frustration? From all involved? THAT is what a bike ride with my cyclist would be like. I can't risk that, I have kids to think about. Strictly Riding Solo and no mistake.
Now then, to bike or not to bike; what does this decision ultimately boil down to? I've made a handy list of the pros and cons currently occupying my mind -
PROS:
1) Thighs.
So I could say something far more worthy in praise of one of the many well-documented benefits of cycling, like 'General Health and Fitness' or 'Increased Life Expectancy', 'Setting a Good Example to the Kids' or 'Reducing Stress', but I'm afraid it would be a big fat bollocky lie. And after all, this is my blog - what's the point of pretending to be something I'm not? For me, it's all about the thighs. And glutes. Toned tummy - how I've missed you. Muffin top, be gone. See ya, bingo wings! Etc. In my mind, this is how it works: 2 spins round the block = bum and legs like Gisele Bundchen (maybe 3, I'm not expecting miracles).
2) Cake.
My research has scientifically proven that cyclists are obsessed with cake. And I like a slice* of Victoria sponge or caramel shortbread as much as the next person. Having seen my cyclist's Garmin uploads I would have to concur that cycling does seem to rather efficiently burn those cheeky little calories that are starting to gang up on me, and even leave a bit of space for some additional ones to be thrown into the mix pretty much guilt-free.
*4 slices. And a cup of tea. And a tube of Smarties to wash it down.
3) Nice People.
All the cycling people I have met have been nice. Without exception. I'm sure there's some knobbers out there, but I've yet to encounter them personally. And one of the main things they all have in common is that they want you to give cycling a try, and they want you to enjoy it too, especially if you're a girl.
4) Loving it.
People are always going on about riding their bikes. Rides they've been on, rides they're going on, weather and scenery and cakes and friends and foam rollers (?). It all sounds pretty, well, FUN.
CONS:
1) It looks like bloody hard work.
Pretty self explanatory really.
2) The outfits.
I have no problem with the principle of the kit, I'm just not 100% confident I can carry off head to toe skintight lycra with a cushion sewn in the bum (unlike the cyclist, who actually makes that shit look hot). Not only would I look like Mrs Sausagelegs in them, those shorts (which I've been told are absolutely essential from a bike comfort point of view) look like a short cut to WedgieTown from where I'm sitting. I suspect people will point. And laugh. But will I be speeding past them too damn fast to care? Laters Dickheeeeeeeeeeads!
Probably not. At least not right away. But one day I might, and that would be sweeeeeeet.
Pretty self explanatory really.
2) The outfits.
I have no problem with the principle of the kit, I'm just not 100% confident I can carry off head to toe skintight lycra with a cushion sewn in the bum (unlike the cyclist, who actually makes that shit look hot). Not only would I look like Mrs Sausagelegs in them, those shorts (which I've been told are absolutely essential from a bike comfort point of view) look like a short cut to WedgieTown from where I'm sitting. I suspect people will point. And laugh. But will I be speeding past them too damn fast to care? Laters Dickheeeeeeeeeeads!
Probably not. At least not right away. But one day I might, and that would be sweeeeeeet.
3) It looks like bloody hard work.
Pretty self explanatory really.
4) Skill.
Contrary to popular belief I can ride a bike. That is not to say I have any bike handling skill whatsoever. In fact, I think it would probably be reasonably accurate to say I have all the natural bike riding ability of a duck. A slightly chubby and self-conscious duck, whose shorts have gone up its bum. I would be a Chopper and/or Whopper, and I'm not sure I can handle that. Also, there is a very strong possibility that I would get to a set of traffic lights, not be able to unclip my foot and go slowly over sideways like Del Boy playing it cool at the bar. Which would be hilarious if you are the twat in the Audi watching, but I expect I'd cry. Also, Im a scaredy cat. I am scared of falling off the bike. I am scared of cars and traffic - both the possibility of them squishing me and of nasty men leaning out of the window and shouting mean stuff at me.
So what to do? I suspect the key is not to get too carried away. Do I really need Di2 on my first ever bike? A carbon aero frame? Probably not - what's good for the goose is not necessarily good for the gander. IF I do decide to lycra up and get my bum on two wheels I'll need to match my bike to my abilities. And thus make sure I get one with a bell and stabilisers.
Pretty self explanatory really.
4) Skill.
Contrary to popular belief I can ride a bike. That is not to say I have any bike handling skill whatsoever. In fact, I think it would probably be reasonably accurate to say I have all the natural bike riding ability of a duck. A slightly chubby and self-conscious duck, whose shorts have gone up its bum. I would be a Chopper and/or Whopper, and I'm not sure I can handle that. Also, there is a very strong possibility that I would get to a set of traffic lights, not be able to unclip my foot and go slowly over sideways like Del Boy playing it cool at the bar. Which would be hilarious if you are the twat in the Audi watching, but I expect I'd cry. Also, Im a scaredy cat. I am scared of falling off the bike. I am scared of cars and traffic - both the possibility of them squishing me and of nasty men leaning out of the window and shouting mean stuff at me.
So what to do? I suspect the key is not to get too carried away. Do I really need Di2 on my first ever bike? A carbon aero frame? Probably not - what's good for the goose is not necessarily good for the gander. IF I do decide to lycra up and get my bum on two wheels I'll need to match my bike to my abilities. And thus make sure I get one with a bell and stabilisers.
Saturday, 26 May 2012
Kit and Caboodle - part 2: Jewellery is for wives, not bikes.
In which our cyclist spends an inordinate amount of time fiddling with his bits, because the bits are the best thing about being a cyclist.
One of the very first lessons I learned about cycling was when the cyclist bought his bike. Except he didn't, because cyclists don't buy bikes. They buy a frame, and wheels, and gears, and saddles and stems and bars and all the rest of it. It's not a bike, it's a handpicked collection of parts; and so much greater than the sum of all the individual components as it contains the indefinable ingredient of you. My cyclist revels in the fact his bike is unique to him.
And the best bit about it? The individual components can be changed whenever time and finances allow. Recently, a new headset was added. A proud picture was subsequently posted on twitter, however following the tiniest touch of criticism our cyclist decamped to the back yard in an arse with a hacksaw for 2 hours worth of swearing to 'slam the shit' out of it. And the new headset was the latest in a series of component changes. Like the tale of the broom that has had 5 new handles and 3 new heads over it's lifetime, the bike evolves. And the components are getting blingier; a new chain (gold), pretty pedals, a nokon cable set - the cyclist has been buying his bike jewellery. A lovely friend of mine pointed out that jewellery was meant for wives, not bikes. The cyclist disagrees.
The purchasing of new components is however a long and tiresome process. Firstly, once the cyclist has it in his head that a component change is on the cards, there's the research phase. This involves many hours of contemplation, comparison, visits to websites and forums, cross-referencing of magazines and blogs, and minute examination of group test articles with allowances made for tester bias and results accepted or rejected based on whether or not the cyclist deems them 'bollocks'. He hasn't made a colour-coded wall chart yet, but I expect he would.
Phase 2 is of course, attempting to find said component at the best possible price. We're back to comparison and web surfing here. A sticky moment can come if you wish to actually eyeball said component prior to the actual commitment of purchase. Obviously, the best prices are usually obtained from online retailers who work out of a warehouse because, overheads. However, this can mean finding the item in question in real life to have a little dribble over is tricky. There have been a couple of sundays written off to the fruitless trawl of bike shops within a 20 mile radius trying to find an example of an X in the glass cabinet near the cash desk where the good shit is. This phase also includes the fairly complex maths of P+P and stock levels. Availability of a product is always key - as once the cyclist has his mind set on a component, he absolutely cannot race until it has been added to the bike. If he can't get his sticky paws on it immediately we will be subjected to a sulk until said item has arrived.
So, the bike is bitching. Admiring glances are cast its way at races. She is your absolute pride and joy. So you must look after her.
The cyclist loves cleaning his bike. Loves it. He doesn't like cleaning anything else, but cleaning the bike is part maintenance, part catharsis. There is a special stand (I have stubbed my bloody toe on it so many times), and nothing in the house can have a greater purpose than serving the cleansing of the bike. All cloths, sponges, tea towels, bath towels and clothing left lying around are fair game when it comes to bike cleaning. Also lost to the general cause of bike maintenance have been a NARS make up brush, 3 pastry brushes and once, memorably, my toothbrush (I had a spare, but that's not the point).
The cyclist has also taken to fashioning rudimentary tools in the pursuit of bike maintenance excellence, like a chimpanzee trying to reach a particularly succulent but troublesomely well-hidden grub. Exhibit A, the attachment he has created for the soldering iron from a filed-down teaspoon to remove old tub glue from his rims.
One of the very first lessons I learned about cycling was when the cyclist bought his bike. Except he didn't, because cyclists don't buy bikes. They buy a frame, and wheels, and gears, and saddles and stems and bars and all the rest of it. It's not a bike, it's a handpicked collection of parts; and so much greater than the sum of all the individual components as it contains the indefinable ingredient of you. My cyclist revels in the fact his bike is unique to him.
And the best bit about it? The individual components can be changed whenever time and finances allow. Recently, a new headset was added. A proud picture was subsequently posted on twitter, however following the tiniest touch of criticism our cyclist decamped to the back yard in an arse with a hacksaw for 2 hours worth of swearing to 'slam the shit' out of it. And the new headset was the latest in a series of component changes. Like the tale of the broom that has had 5 new handles and 3 new heads over it's lifetime, the bike evolves. And the components are getting blingier; a new chain (gold), pretty pedals, a nokon cable set - the cyclist has been buying his bike jewellery. A lovely friend of mine pointed out that jewellery was meant for wives, not bikes. The cyclist disagrees.
The purchasing of new components is however a long and tiresome process. Firstly, once the cyclist has it in his head that a component change is on the cards, there's the research phase. This involves many hours of contemplation, comparison, visits to websites and forums, cross-referencing of magazines and blogs, and minute examination of group test articles with allowances made for tester bias and results accepted or rejected based on whether or not the cyclist deems them 'bollocks'. He hasn't made a colour-coded wall chart yet, but I expect he would.
Phase 2 is of course, attempting to find said component at the best possible price. We're back to comparison and web surfing here. A sticky moment can come if you wish to actually eyeball said component prior to the actual commitment of purchase. Obviously, the best prices are usually obtained from online retailers who work out of a warehouse because, overheads. However, this can mean finding the item in question in real life to have a little dribble over is tricky. There have been a couple of sundays written off to the fruitless trawl of bike shops within a 20 mile radius trying to find an example of an X in the glass cabinet near the cash desk where the good shit is. This phase also includes the fairly complex maths of P+P and stock levels. Availability of a product is always key - as once the cyclist has his mind set on a component, he absolutely cannot race until it has been added to the bike. If he can't get his sticky paws on it immediately we will be subjected to a sulk until said item has arrived.
So, the bike is bitching. Admiring glances are cast its way at races. She is your absolute pride and joy. So you must look after her.
The cyclist loves cleaning his bike. Loves it. He doesn't like cleaning anything else, but cleaning the bike is part maintenance, part catharsis. There is a special stand (I have stubbed my bloody toe on it so many times), and nothing in the house can have a greater purpose than serving the cleansing of the bike. All cloths, sponges, tea towels, bath towels and clothing left lying around are fair game when it comes to bike cleaning. Also lost to the general cause of bike maintenance have been a NARS make up brush, 3 pastry brushes and once, memorably, my toothbrush (I had a spare, but that's not the point).
The cyclist has also taken to fashioning rudimentary tools in the pursuit of bike maintenance excellence, like a chimpanzee trying to reach a particularly succulent but troublesomely well-hidden grub. Exhibit A, the attachment he has created for the soldering iron from a filed-down teaspoon to remove old tub glue from his rims.
Some of the cyclist's bike tools. You might like to note that in the best traditions his set of Allen Keys has someone else's name on.
So the bike is clean. And the house is filled with the aerosol whiff of GT85, because the bike lives in the front room. But that's another story...
Saturday, 19 May 2012
Kit and Caboodle - part 1
In which our heroine's washing basket fills up with lycra and she learns you can never have too many gloves...
At the moment, my cyclist is racing his bike on average 3 times a week. This means I am permanently washing crazily expensive padded lycra gimp-gear (that is the last time I will refer to it as gimp-gear, I promise). This is a sample conversation:
'You are washing my stuff separately on a 30oC delicates, aren't you?'
'Yes dear'.
But of course I'm bloody not. I am, in fact, frantically opening kitchen windows and fanning the door to clear the clouds of steam emanating from the washing machine and humming loudly to try and cover the sound of the 'Mega-Super-Spin', which is threatening to dislodge the taps and shake the tiles from the walls. Then getting said kit out of the machine really quickly to hide the fact the load also contained 3 sets of the boy's school uniform and an oven glove.
Washing this lot at 30oC! You are having a LARF, cycling brands my husband favours. Have you seen what these cyclists do to their kit? These bibshorts need a boil wash and no mistake. Mud, blood, tears, sweat and chain lube are not coming out of anything at 30 degrees. And yet, that's what all the washing labels in all the garments are insisting is the absolute maximum temperature they can be exposed to ('Warning! This top will dissolve if you dare wash it at 40oC!' 'We cannot be held responsible for what may ensue should you put this on a coloured cotton wash!' 'Hand-wash only or face irreversible damage to the space-time continuum!' etc).
This is most of the current kit roster - though there's bound to be something I've forgotten: Three lengths of bibbed bottoms - shorts, full length tights, and a cropped capri pant length thing called a bib-knicker. ( You are not allowed to snigger at bib-knicker. You are a grown up). Also, leg-warmers, for a mid race / ride leg transformation. Training socks, racing socks, oversocks, overshoes, gore-tex overshoes. Short sleeve jerseys, long sleeve jerseys, arm-warmers, over jackets, rain cape, gore-tex rain cape. Not forgetting shoes, glasses, assorted lenses for the glasses, and helmet.
Now, let's have a little chat about base layers. Base layers?! 'S a vest, innit? We are in glorious possession of three types of base layer. Apparently, at least 2 of them are 'sweat wicking'. Well, that's just disgusting. Where precisely does it 'wick' the sweat to? One of the base layers is not only 'sweat wicking', but it's fabric is 'technical'. I can only presume this is for wearing when you have to go round a lot of corners, as I'm now pretty sure through watching Eurosport that this is what 'technical' means in a cycling context.
And socks. Socks. Socks socks socks socks socks. The brand my cyclist favours prints the ambient temperature-range design parameters on the sock itself. I can't work out whether this is risable or genius. Either way it's worked, as we have a sock for any temperature you could possibly expect in the UK and several which are hopeful rather than likely. If you can find the matching sock you need, you have hit the sock jackpot. If not, whatever the temperature, one foot will always be in perfect besocked comfort, while the other either freezes or swelters in a 6-12oC 'Early Spring' sock (the Blood Type O Negative of cycling socks).
And finally, to gloves. I have been informed that you can never have too many cycling gloves. These are the gloves my cyclist recommends you have :
Note:
The cyclist doesn't actually like wearing gloves. If he can get away without wearing gloves, he will.
At the moment, my cyclist is racing his bike on average 3 times a week. This means I am permanently washing crazily expensive padded lycra gimp-gear (that is the last time I will refer to it as gimp-gear, I promise). This is a sample conversation:
'You are washing my stuff separately on a 30oC delicates, aren't you?'
'Yes dear'.
But of course I'm bloody not. I am, in fact, frantically opening kitchen windows and fanning the door to clear the clouds of steam emanating from the washing machine and humming loudly to try and cover the sound of the 'Mega-Super-Spin', which is threatening to dislodge the taps and shake the tiles from the walls. Then getting said kit out of the machine really quickly to hide the fact the load also contained 3 sets of the boy's school uniform and an oven glove.
Washing this lot at 30oC! You are having a LARF, cycling brands my husband favours. Have you seen what these cyclists do to their kit? These bibshorts need a boil wash and no mistake. Mud, blood, tears, sweat and chain lube are not coming out of anything at 30 degrees. And yet, that's what all the washing labels in all the garments are insisting is the absolute maximum temperature they can be exposed to ('Warning! This top will dissolve if you dare wash it at 40oC!' 'We cannot be held responsible for what may ensue should you put this on a coloured cotton wash!' 'Hand-wash only or face irreversible damage to the space-time continuum!' etc).
This is most of the current kit roster - though there's bound to be something I've forgotten: Three lengths of bibbed bottoms - shorts, full length tights, and a cropped capri pant length thing called a bib-knicker. ( You are not allowed to snigger at bib-knicker. You are a grown up). Also, leg-warmers, for a mid race / ride leg transformation. Training socks, racing socks, oversocks, overshoes, gore-tex overshoes. Short sleeve jerseys, long sleeve jerseys, arm-warmers, over jackets, rain cape, gore-tex rain cape. Not forgetting shoes, glasses, assorted lenses for the glasses, and helmet.
Now, let's have a little chat about base layers. Base layers?! 'S a vest, innit? We are in glorious possession of three types of base layer. Apparently, at least 2 of them are 'sweat wicking'. Well, that's just disgusting. Where precisely does it 'wick' the sweat to? One of the base layers is not only 'sweat wicking', but it's fabric is 'technical'. I can only presume this is for wearing when you have to go round a lot of corners, as I'm now pretty sure through watching Eurosport that this is what 'technical' means in a cycling context.
And socks. Socks. Socks socks socks socks socks. The brand my cyclist favours prints the ambient temperature-range design parameters on the sock itself. I can't work out whether this is risable or genius. Either way it's worked, as we have a sock for any temperature you could possibly expect in the UK and several which are hopeful rather than likely. If you can find the matching sock you need, you have hit the sock jackpot. If not, whatever the temperature, one foot will always be in perfect besocked comfort, while the other either freezes or swelters in a 6-12oC 'Early Spring' sock (the Blood Type O Negative of cycling socks).
And finally, to gloves. I have been informed that you can never have too many cycling gloves. These are the gloves my cyclist recommends you have :
- Short fingered racing gloves (you should really have a couple of pairs of these)
- Long fingered racing gloves
- Long fingered cool weather/ evening training gloves
- Thermal gloves for winter training
- Waterproof gloves
- Gloves that are bought because you like the gloves.
Note:
The cyclist doesn't actually like wearing gloves. If he can get away without wearing gloves, he will.
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