The 2013 London to Brighton bike
ride is what I intended An Appropriate
Bicycle to be all about – the opportunity to savour mass riding on clean
roads and how I might approach that – and I’d always envisaged a more
pronounced focus toward the actual act of cycling. Instead this project has almost developed into
some sort of ‘budget cycling advice bureau’. Not only do
the accoutrements of this topical sphere interest me as much as the physical
endeavour, but I've come to conclude that this attitude is not actually out of
keeping with the… scene.
It’s not
unreasonable to suggest that I have acquired something of a feel for what motivates
the cycling enthusiast, and I have concluded that consumerism appears to play its
part. I'm not the sort to normally embrace
or approve of such material machinations, but – if it’s to be entered into
whole-heartedly – it is obvious that the pursuit of cycling requires a certain
level of investment. More to the point,
the tools of cycling appear to take on a significance of their own.
The thing that most
amateur cyclists, aspiring youths – and anyone else who has to buy their own
cycling kit – think about when they think about pro bike riders is often, in
all honesty, not how great would it be to do that race, or how cool would it be
to fly around the world doing what you love: the first thing people think is, “how
cool would it be to get all that kit?”
These are the words of Tom
Southam, former professional cyclist with Rapha Condor Sharp (among other teams), and I assume
that they’re representative of the trade.
Yet, the accumulation of cycling related paraphernalia
does not appear to be motivated by the desire to display status or engage in any sort of power
play. Instead, the cycling enthusiast exhibits a geek-like fondness for
memorabilia and of accruing accessories, which points to an almost
pathologically obsessive dedication toward their chosen past-time. It is for this reason that I think the descriptions
of my dealings with mail-order companies and web-based market places are compulsively relevant.
Is it
altogether healthy? Does it reduce what
might ostensibly be a means of getting about, of keeping fit or earning a
living, into something of a capitalist endeavour? My financial predicament has determined how I
approach this, but it’s interesting to see how unnecessary a lot of this outlay
might actually be: that you don’t have to part with over £100 for a “technical
jacket” or 70-odd quid for a jersey. Would
not doing so point to a surfeit of vanity?
But there are
those who do, and therein lies the point of Carlos-Weltschmerz, of An
Appropriate Bicycle, and of me. Even if
I wanted to – even if I had the money – I couldn't join in the way that could
be expected of me. I don’t buy the
up-market cycling magazines (I've allowed myself a couple of editions of Cycle
Sport, for research purposes only) and I don’t feel very comfortable in places
like Sigma Sport. I don’t think I could ever
bring myself to join a club, and I only intend to wear proper cycling shorts on
the longer and harder rides. Yet I've
enjoyed mixing with the guys at the lower end of the industry – the adventure
capitalists and D’Vlo, the cottage industry that is Vintage Bike Cave, or those
old-school stalwarts at Prendas selling retro jerseys. I've willingly embraced the heritage of “The
Tour” and bought into its myths. I have
been actively seeking to look the part.
As a
corollary to all of this, I seem to have developed an obsession with my
new-found hobby that is muddying the waters. EBay has a lot to answer for here: it’s too
easy, and there’s so much gear out there that one’s aesthetic sensibilities
become overawed and confused, so much so that I've been thinking of selling my
Solo jersey – a garment of consummate fit – just to allow myself the opportunity
to stalk the marketplace for the perfectly authentic vesture in which to ride
from London to Brighton. This is the
pernicious effect of a capitalist sensibility given a free rein (under the
guise of self-improvement). A laissez faire state of mind is scarcely
satisfied because it is geared towards an inexorable façade of moving forward (they call it progress).
The Carlos-Galli jersey
arrived, right? But in the meantime I’d
sold my Jamis after a month of commuting back to work on the thing (a temporary
arrangement) and quite struggled to get to grips with the Carlos once we’d
become re-acquainted. I sold the Jamis with
the D-lock and the front light included (to an agreeable Australian who didn't
cavil at the terms and conditions, which were not unreasonable) and treated
myself to a Lezyne Femto LED front
light to combat the crepuscular conditions I now faced on my ride home from my
job (a new lock was to follow).
I had a day
off and rode the Chiswick Circuit in the hope that Carlos and I could get back
to how things were, but three weeks spent riding the Jamis now confirmed my
latent fear that the Carlos had too long a reach for me. It was no longer the spectre or an errant Pinarello that was troubling me,
but the real possibility that I might completely break down on the 54 mile ride
from London to Brighton. And so I
decided, quite ruthlessly, that the Carlos would have to go.
In
fact, I’d already been on the lookout for a predominantly white bicycle
– replete with 1980s era livery, preferably – but instead came across an attractive cerulean
blue Pinarello Asolo and a very
minimal Vicini Cesena selling a week
apart on eBay. I placed speculative bids
on both but won on neither. That I’d
even bothered was a reflection on the internal dialogue playing out
within me, my romantic attachment for the Carlos on the one side up against a
need for something nippier and more functional on the other (although I was
still thinking very resolutely along the lines of steel). Maybe I distracted myself with the pursuit of
jerseys to avoid this uncomfortable truth, for I'm not sure I had the stomach
for indulging in yet more bicycle based trade.
The Vicini Cesena is the key here, for I took the loss of
the Pinarello Asolo on the chin, despite its obvious beauty and apparently
appropriate dimensions. My research led
me to believe that the seller did not fully appreciate the rarity of the Vicini. I had no definitive idea either, but
estimated it to be worth at least £450. I
could only afford to offer £350.
I set my maximum bid for the Vicini
accordingly, but was outbid to the tune of 30 pounds. I may have bid higher had my attempts to
contact the seller for detailed measurements not been rebuffed by some paranoid
application on eBay (either erroneously or because the seller so decreed). I’d momentarily considered doing so
regardless, entitled as I was to retract my offer on the day of exchange on the
grounds that the provided measurements were insufficient and vague – horribly
so: blurred pictures of a tape-measure being held out in front of the top and
seat tubes – but I couldn't bear to suffer the hassle, nor the conceivable disappointment.
On investigating
the activity of the winning bidder it was discovered that they sold as much as
they bought, which led me to believe that the bike had not necessarily been secured
with the intent of riding it. This
supposition proved to be true, for not three weeks later the bike re-appeared
on Gumtree – exhibiting minor, but mostly unnecessary, alterations – with an
asking price of £599. I liked that the black
seat-post had been replaced with a chrome variation, but was very sad that the
new seller had stripped the frame of its decals. It was a silvery-grey bike
that suited being pared down, but the blue text on the down-tube had not been
out of keeping with this. I was also
puzzled as to why one set of deep-rimmed wheels had been replaced with another
of an almost exact monstrosity.
The Vicini before
The Vicini after
Anyway, the new seller was receptive to my questions, and
although the measurements provided did appear to confirm my suspicion that this
bike was a little too big, they were close enough to convince that it was worth
making the trip to Highgate to be sure. It occurred to me that it would do no harm, whilst up that way, to drop
in at the Vintage Bike Cave and look at another bike that had struck a chord
somewhere along the line. (I can’t recall when but it was probably about a
month after I bought the Carlos, and I had judged it then to be too small and
prohibitively expensive. To have seen it
still for sale some months later obliged me to consider the subject of fate
once more, now that the Carlos had established itself as being larger than I at
one time thought – this lack of spatial perspective on my part still baffles me.)
The journey to Highgate took
approximately one hour. On my arrival I
was required to turn a right up Archway Road in the direction of East Finchley,
as opposed to left towards Archway and the Vintage Bike Cave. Highgate had appeared to be an agreeable area
when walking in a south-easterly direction, but this reverse north-west uphill
swing presented a different perspective. When I reached the area the seller’s postcode encompassed I gave him a
call and was furnished with the number of the house in which he resided.
The seller was a pleasant gentleman of
central European origin, and it materialised that he had actually thought about
using the bike for himself, but quite enjoyed buying bikes, mutilating them,
and selling them on again if they didn't quite measure up. At six feet in height, I speculated that the
Vicini Cesena was a little too small for him and that this was why he was
selling it, although the 60 cm seat-tube implied otherwise.
The bike, when he revealed it to me, did
not look as large as I had anticipated. Further – and this was the reason for me being tempted into seeing it in
the first instance – the Pleasant Gentleman of Central European Origin had
fitted a relatively short quill stem to the bike, compensating for the fact that
it had roughly the same top-tube length as the Carlos, which might mean that
the reach issues I’d been having would not resurface here. That was not all, for the Vicini Cesena was
equipped with integrated brake and gear shifters – “brifters” as they’re
otherwise known.
I took the bike for a spin across the
road in the Plumb Centre’s car park – a bleak stretch of concrete that offered
small room for manoeuvre. The bike rode
well, and I felt very comfortable on it. However, the reduction in stem length meant that the front wheel felt too
far in front of me, and the front hub – which they say should almost be in line
with the handlebars when the rider looks down towards them – was clearly
visible a few inches beyond. This might
not make any perceivable difference to the ride, but the Vicini had a wheelbase
of 1 metre (the same as Carlos), a top-tube length of 57.5 cm (also the same as
Carlos) and a seat-tube measurement of 60 cm (2 cm longer than Carlos). What’s more, the Pleasant Gentleman of Central
European Origin had shifted the seat forward in an attempt to reduce the reach still
further, so what felt nice to ride now might induce consequences later. And there was a little more corrosion than
had been apparent from the photographs on Gumtree, and, despite some quality
looking Campagnolo componentry, those horrific Athena 96 deep-rimmed wheels. I knew it wasn't worth the £599 he was asking for, but I expect so did he. I supposed he would have accepted anything over £500 for it. I’d made it clear I wasn't there to make a
purchase right now but parted company offering the hint that I might in
the future.
Bikes never seem to look quite as good
“in the metal” as they do on one’s 14ʺ laptop screen, and the Romani Prestige Special Competition was no exception. Darker in hue, and needing some attention,
the £475 asking price was perhaps a mite ambitious. It was explained to me, by The Man Who Worked
On Lathes, that restoration had not yet begun – it wasn't even fit for a
test-ride (their phones and internet connection had been down all week, so I
had no way to forewarn them of my intended visit). But simply sitting astride the Romani gave me
a good feeling for it, and it was a very good-looking bike, despite its present
shabbiness.
I exited the Vintage Bike Cave with
something of a dilemma on my hands, both bikes having felt immediately
more comfortable to ride than the Carlos. By the time I’d reached the platform at Highgate tube station it was pretty
much resolved.
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